


Mind How You Go

by Hel_in_NL



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Dry Humping, Frottage, Love Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Pining, Snogging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21553135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hel_in_NL/pseuds/Hel_in_NL
Summary: It probably wasn't good idea to leave a paper trail. Then again, it probably wasn't a good idea to meet in public places, either. At least this way they could say what they couldn't out loud. At least this way they could stay close.ORA history of pining, love, and affection as told through notes and letters through out the years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 335
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

The angel left shortly after the rain dripped and dragged to a gentle stop. Things to sort out, he said, concerning the banishment of the humans from the garden and just what the heaven he had been doing at the time. A report needed to be made to his head office. 

It seemed to Crawley, since it was God that decided to give them the boot, that  _ She _ should have been the one to make a report, to justify her actions to the Host. It had been Her decision, after all. Her grand, ineffable test. It was only fair. 

(Who was he kidding? God didn’t have to make reports and She had no reason to play fair. She was God! No checks and balances could be measured against the unknowable.)

So, off the fretting angel went to explain to baffled archangels how things had gone absolutely pear shaped, leaving the demon Crawley unattended in the world’s first garden. He supposed he should get on to his own filing, really. There was no need for him to hang around. Temptation accomplished and all that.

Except, no one had demanded he return, had they? Not explicitly. His instructions had simply been to cause some trouble. That sounded like an assignment that could carry on for a pleasantly long time if he played his cards right. Certainly, being top side was a lot better than the filthy, humid, dark corridors that made up the sprawl of Hell. Reporting could be done remotely with a snap of his fingers. No need to go back.

He could explore! Bask on rocks and dive in deep pools. Investigate under the guise of gaining intel. The Big Guy would appreciate knowing just what had become of the big project that he had once worked on. There was a lot of earth, a lot to report on. If he dragged his heels a bit he might even be able to stretch it out until the humans had propagated enough to cause some real trouble. 

Alright then. He wasn’t going back. He’d leave the garden and wander. 

...but perhaps the angel would be returning? It would be rude to leave without a word, especially since he had been so kind as to not smite him on sight. He was a demon, sure, but he liked to think he still had some manners. Grace and courtesy didn’t go hand in hand, he knew this for a fact. 

The angel could be gone for years, though. Time was a bit of an abstract concept to the ethereal and occult, after all. 

(Crawley, when he was Above, often wondered how the new humans would deal with such concepts. Would they invent something to track the passing of seconds? Would they measure by the sun and moon? The dawn and dusk? It had been exciting to consider at the time. It still kind of was, though he dared not say so out loud.)

Right. The angel could be gone for a long time and he wanted to get on with it. That left him with one option: a note. 

The angel would need to patch the hole the Almighty had created in the wall when he returned. No doubt this whole garden was going to get squirreled away in the big project bin in Her private office and She’d want to see it in good condition. 

(Crawley resented that he knew this. He hated that he could still remember its abandoned, fantastic contents.)

It was near the hole that he left his note. It was carved out of stone, written in Enochian even though writing in the alphabet of the divine blistered his finger terribly. It was for this reason he kept it short and to the point. No faffing about. 

The angel would probably be confused by the presence of any note, no matter the length. Why would a demon leave a message? It would be suspicious, Crawley reckoned. He’d probably report it to Gabriel or Michael or one of those other wankers. Whatever. This was for Crawley. He  _ wasn’t _ a wanker.

He sucked his blistered index finger absentmindedly as he looked over his work. The letter were jagged and lacked any of the eloquence typical in the language, the sentences sloping at strange angles, and there were no spelling mistakes but one or two of the words were barely legible. _ Sloppy. _ He used to be a painter of nebula’s, an architect of stars, and now he could barely manage to scrawl a decent sentence. All the deftness in his hands had been yanked out along with Her love and grace. 

It didn’t matter. It was just a stupid note.

(His pride ached. He was abundant in pride, even when Above.)

_ ‘Gone to report then taking a gander. Mind how you go. ~C.’ _

Satisfied, he nodded to himself and allowed scales to fold over his spine, his arms to vanish from his sides. Soon he was bipedal no longer.

A serpent slithering out into the desert wastes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The garden was wilder by the time Aziraphale returned. There were fewer animals, most having escaped through God’s hole to the wider world, therefore the plant life had none to cull it. He didn’t think it was unpleasant, just chaotic in a way he unused to. Heaven was all straight lines and pristine planes.

He liked this wildness. Such a pity it was all being decommissioned and stored away until further notice. His new assignment required him to stay on the earth until further notice and this would have been a lovely spot to set up his base operations. 

As well. No use dwelling on it. Angels weren’t meant to own things, after all. Possessions were to be a human concept. 

(Although, Aziraphale was certain he had been given his flaming sword. Gabriel and the others liked to say ‘assigned’ but God had quite specifically said “This is yours. Do right with it.” That sounded like a gift, a thing he owned. Something that he could give away….)

He had one last duty as Guardian of the Eastern gate and that was to patch up the hole. 

It was easy enough work. Aziraphale was decently strong, even among his fellow angels, and earthly things like weight and gravity were not strictly applicable to his kind. His corporation was human shaped and had certain limitations placed upon it but these were drawbacks he didn’t need to acknowledge yet. He had no need to blend in.

Yet.

It was the lingering odor of brimstone and seared flesh that brought his full attention to the flat rock he had picked up. Words were burned into the yellowed stone, dark and messy, but unquestionably Enochian. Not that it could have been anything else, really. Humans had no written language yet and, as far as he knew, neither did the Fallen. Rumor was that it hurt them to write in the language of the divine. 

That was probably why he was astounded to see just  _ who _ the note was from. Who else could ‘C’ be then the demon he had sheltered from the rain? 

The writing bore signs of a struggle, as if the unfortunate creature had barely been able to get the words out. Had he burned himself trying to write in the divine language? That would explain the scent of burning flesh. How strange that he forced himself to suffer all for the sake of a brief note. 

(The note didn’t say thank you or anything of the sort but Aziraphale could feel the lingering intent. The demon had been grateful. For what, Aziraphale wasn’t sure. Surely, anyone would have done the same! ...well, perhaps not Gabriel. Or Sandalphon. Or Uriel. Or-)

‘Mind how you go.’ He quite liked that. It wasn’t a promise of seeing each other again or a well wish, yet both were implied. Well, the latter was implied. Aziraphale just hoped for the former. 

Any demon that was courteous enough to leave a note, no matter the risk of personal injury, was a demon that was worth investigating further. Perhaps all the things he had heard about the Fallen were merely exaggerations! Oh, how wonderful that would be! No more petty fighting or mind numbingly circular discussions about the nature of evil. It would no doubt be a weight off every angels mind if they knew there was a chance that their former comrades were not as awful as they had been told!

(Or he’d be strung up for heresy. Sympathizing with the enemy. Promoting the Morningstar to the Host when all he wanted was-was-...well. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. To see goodness in all of the Almighties creation? Yes. That had to be it.)

He was just placing the last stone in the hole, mind still firmly on the strange little note, when he began to wonder how far Crawley would have gotten. Perhaps he was still close? They could chat a little more and allow Aziraphale to evaluate him further-

Light opened upon him, Her voice calling his name.

...perhaps he better avoid the demon until the Lord forgot about the flaming sword business. 

There’d be time.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a flood. It was meant to cleanse the earth yet all it did was leave Aziraphale feeling dirty, as if he had participated in something wretched instead of God’s divine will. Being an angel was not an easy job sometimes. 

Crawley had been there as the rain started. He wasn’t happy with it either and he made it known, opining on the events in a way that Aziraphale wasn’t able.

They had gone their separate ways as the rain began in earnest. Aziraphale could not look at the demon as he left, his shame was too great.

(Crawley hadn’t bid him farewell. He was disgusted, the angel felt sure. He knew the opinion of a demon shouldn’t matter to him but...well. It was a valid point of view. Even the children were drowned. The innocent. Dear Lord, why?)

The next time they met was in Egypt. Aziraphale had been assigned to watch over a young man that had been sold into slavery by his jealous brothers. Said young man also happened to be receiving prophetic dreams from the Almighty Herself and was beginning to make a bit of a name for himself as a prophet. The Pharaoh was starting to take an interest. 

It was an easy assignment. All he needed to do was sit back, watch, and provide a bit of unseen, divine inspiration whenever the lads hope seemed to falter. It left him with plenty of free time, much of which he spent in gathering places, drinking thick barley beer and sampling all manner of fine breads.

(He had quickly found he was rather fond of humanity's culinary endeavors. His fellow angels didn’t understand his fascination nor did they share it, seeing it as a kind of aberration. He was careful not to talk about it. Careful not to seem gluttonous. He was becoming quite good at hiding himself from others.)

Crawley appeared suddenly, as he always did, directly to his left. He all but threw himself in a loose tangle of limbs on to the bench Aziraphale was sat upon, held up his hand to silence the angel as he opened his mouth to greet him, and began to chug beer directly from a clay jug he had clenched in his hand. Aziraphale watched with mounting fascination and growing humour as the demon tilted his head further back, his adam's apple bobbing as he drank deeply without pausing for breath.

Finally, he pitched himself forward with a satisfied, relieved gasp and wiped the froth from his mouth with the back of one of his pale hands. The same hand was used to gesture once more, indicating that now Aziraphale was allowed to speak. 

“It’s a good drink, yes?” Aziraphale asked tentatively, foregoing a greeting completely. It seemed unnecessary now and, honestly, he wasn’t sure why Crawley was sitting with him at all after the flood business. 

“Could be stronger. Have you been further east yet? They have booze that has you knackered before you finish a cup!” There was a flicker of infernal energy, the tell tale signs of a slight miracle. The jug that Aziraphale was sure had been empty just a moment before was brought back to the demons lips. 

“I’ve had to remain fairly central, unfortunately,” Aziraphale confessed with a sigh. “The Almighties favorites haven’t branched out much past this area yet.”

“Should go anyways,” Crawley advised with a smirk. “Slip out in the dead of night, spread your wings, and go for an explore. There’s a lot of world to see, Angel.” 

It was surprising how easy they chatted with each other. Aziraphale had been certain just a moment ago that any reception he received from Crawley would be cold or mocking, yet there wasn’t a trace of either from the demon. They spoke to each other as they always had: like they were friends that hadn’t seen each other for a long time.

(They weren’t friends. An angel and a demon could never be friends. He sternly reminded himself of this even as he delighted in the unexpected company.)

“Don’t tempt me, dear,” He huffed, feigning annoyance in the absence of actually feeling it. “What need do I have to stray so far just for alcohol? Angels do not get...inebriated.”

“You are literally drinking beer right now at this very moment.” The demon quirked an eyebrow, yellow eyes flashing mischievously as if he had Aziraphale in some grand hypocrisy. 

(He had.)

“Even the children drink this. It’s very nutritional, you know! Almost a meal on its own!” He took a defiant swig from his jug, portraying divine righteousness with nothing but a prim gulp of liquid. 

“Ah.” Crawley nodded, as if Aziraphale had made his point clear. The angel thrilled for a moment. So often he felt wrong footed in their conversations and now, this time, he had finally put the sly snake in his place.

Then Crawley reached for his buttered bread.

“Well, if it’s a meal all on its own I guess you won’t be needing this, yeah?” He asked lightly, the faint outline of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “I’ve had quite the go getting here and-”

A sharp, celestial slap was delivered to the back of thin fingers and the offending hand was drawn back with a shocked, but gleeful, yelp.

“Hands off, fiend!”

Crawley was grinning ear to ear. “Gluttony is a sin, angel.”

“So is theft.” He was aiming for prim and proper but was betrayed by his answering smile. This was fun It had been a long time since he had fun. “...I suppose I could be convinced to share, however.” 

“Oooo, offset it all with a bit of charity. Good idea.” Crawley stood suddenly, alarming the angel. It must have shown in his face because something in the demons yellow eyes softened. “I have a room nearby and some of that Eastern booze I was talking about. Best we share and be merry under a roof, don’t you think?” 

Aziraphale cast a furtive glance upward at the clear, blue sky. Anyone could be watching. They could be observing him right now, waiting for him to smite the original tempter off the earth. They could be filling out the paperwork detailing how he was drinking and laughing with the adversary. 

...but...no one had visited him on earth for nearly a century now. Not since the Flood. Indeed, they always seemed a bit astounded when he reported in, as if they forgot about him until they needed an agent that knew humans well. 

(They weren’t watching. He knew this deep in his heart. He was forgotten. Ignored. A peculiar angel that had given up a battalion and a position of prestige to fail at guarding a garden then wander around like a vagabond among humans. It hurt. It was lonely.)

He followed Crawley after voicing only the most surface level of concerns.

That evening marked the first time he ever found himself well and truly drunk. The conversation flowed between them as easy as the alcohol with Crawley telling grand tales of his misdeeds and the strange, delightful customs he had seen in his travels while Aziraphale leaned in and confided in hushed tones that he was, perhaps, enjoying his time on earth a little more than was proper for an angel. 

“Proper. Angels aren’t proper.” Crawley declared at one point, snorting into his beer, words slurred in the most amusing way. “When were you created? Not long before the Fall, I bet. You should have seen how they all were at the start! Proper...fuck. I saw Michael make a nebula made out of pure alcohol and Gabriel summon golden chalices to drink it up! Does that sound proper?”   
  
Aziraphale couldn’t answer. He had long ago been struck by a fit of giggles so powerful that they made talking for any length of time nigh impossible. It didn’t help that Crawley seemed intent on saying absurd, hilarious things as soon as he managed to reign it in. 

(It was as if his joy was Crawley’s fuel. He dared not think about that too hard.)

The evening grew dark, as did his thoughts. The conversation became nonsense. They sat closer. They told jokes and stories. They ate bread and, at one point, Crawley produced some rich and sweet from thin air that left Aziraphale fawning with bliss after every bite while the demon watched with a peculiar, intense expression.

The morning came suddenly, if only because for the first time ever Aziraphale was not awake for it. Oh. He must have passed out. He had seen humans do this before after indulging to thoroughly. How they tolerated the ringing in their ears and the pounding in their heads upon waking he couldn’t fathom.

With a snap of his fingers he relieved his pain and took stock of his surroundings. 

Crawley was splayed in all directions on the stone floor. It didn’t look comfortable at all. Aziraphale had been a deplorable quest, it seemed, and had taken not only the sleeping mat but the blankets. Oh dear. How awful of him!

(There was a hazy memory. Yellow eyes and a forked tongue, a hand on his arm. “Just rest here, angel. It’s late. There we go. Nighty night.”)

He stood on stiff legs and nudged the demon with his toes. No response. Not even a hitch in his soft snoring. Crawley was well and truly out cold. 

Ah, well. That had been a pleasant night but it certainly wouldn’t be good for him to stick around any longer. He had to check on the young man, observe his meeting with the Pharaoh, and make sure no harm came to him. If they found out that he had been lax in his duties in favor of spending time with a demon-

He needed to leave.

First, however, he needed to be polite.

It only took a snap of his fingers to summon papyrus and ink. It took a bit longer to careful depict draw out the intricate symbols that made up the Egyptian language. It was awfully fiddly, Aziraphale found, and he hoped that the humans adopted an easier alphabet sooner rather than later. 

Message done, he tucked the note next to the slumbering demon...and lingered, watching him. Weren’t...weren’t demons meant to be ugly, vile things? Crawley certainly was neither. In fact, he was rather...fetching? Red hair, pale freckled skin, a nice lean figure-

The angel shook the thoughts from his head. That was new. He’d found many humans visually appealing before but he had never spent as much time staring at them as he had done with Crawley. 

Aziraphale was disturbed.

If his departure after that was hasty no one but him knew. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ “Crawley, _

_ Thank you for the pleasurable evening. I’m afraid I may have found a new indulgence to partake in. Temptation accomplished, I suppose. You must be very proud! _

_ You should be. It was quite fun. _

_ If you have business in the city, I suggest you do it and get out. A gaze you wouldn’t want to catch the notice of will be directed this way very soon. It would be quite bothersome if you got caught by the wrong sort. _

_ Mind how you go. _

_ ~A.” _

Crawley’s heart was a show piece. It didn’t need to beat yet there it was, knocking about his chest as if it were intent on making an escape. It was only a stupid note. There was no need to get this worked up over it, really. The angel was just showing basic decorum. 

(To him. To the unforgivable. To the fallen. To a demon.)

It was nothing.

Yet his heart was hammering away, his hands trembling. 

_ ‘Mind how you go.’ _

He remembered. He got his note back then and remembered the last line.

It...was...nice?

He shuddered. No. Not nice. Just...polite. Decent. Professional.

He was reading too much into it.

(There had been a moment of silence the night before. The laughter drifted away. He looked up to see hazy, blue eyes gazing at him in the low candle light. Aziraphale had smiled, reached out and patted his knee. “We should do this again.” Crawley, drunk as he was, had wondered when ‘again’ might be.)

Yes. He was reading too much into a thank you note. 

He kept it anyways. He didn’t get many letters that didn’t smell like sulfur and suffering. It was...appreciated.

He didn’t know what to make of it.

His heart didn’t stop its strange rhythm until days later when he was far from the city, when he couldn’t feel angelic essence lurking in the very air.

The beat was missed after it was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. Sometimes you just gotta get pissed and watch your demon friend sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Crawley saw Aziraphale he was not going by Crawley anymore. The name had worn thin. It was too on the nose, too depreciating. It wasn’t representative of who he wanted to be as he lived his life on earth.

Crowley was much better. Mysterious, kind of cool sounding. He liked to think it invoked shadowy imagery and ill omens.

“Oh, so not like the bird?” Aziraphale inquired as he tipped an oyster back to his lips. Crowley watched with unbridled fascination. The oysters tasted more than alright but there was just something captivating about watching an angel indulge. Not to mention that Aziraphale seemed to indulge with the entirety of his immortal, blessed soul in ways that would make even his fellow demons raise their eyebrows in baffled surprise. 

“Why the heaven would I name myself after a bird?” Crowley wrinkled his nose, loosening his dark glasses from their perch. He had made them himself, twisting the wires and smoking the glass with his shaking hands. He had gotten better over the centuries, more coordinated and deft in the fingers, but fine detail work still tended to escape him. 

At least he could write legibly now. 

“Your wings.” Aziraphale reached for his wine and took a deep drink.

“Ah. Black like a crows.” Bless it all. He hadn’t thought of that connotation. Fuck. 

“Yes!” Aziraphale smiled brightly, as if he hadn’t just rained all over Crowley’s parade. “Crows have such sleek plumage! Oh! They’re clever as well! Very observant. I think it’s a very fitting name for you.”   
  
That sounded suspiciously like praise. When was the last time he had been complimented in a good natured way, let alone praised? Since he Fell? 

He didn’t know what to do with the bubbling feeling in his chest. “Shut up. It’s just a name,” he grumbled and hid his reddening face behind his goblet of wine. 

“A fine name,” Aziraphale insisted stubbornly. He went back to his oysters briefly, slurping and moaning indecently, oblivious of just how hedonistic he looked. Dionysus could take lessons from the angel and still not be able to make eating and drinking look quite so...so….

Erotic.

The word flew into Crowley mind unbidden and set up shop without any of the proper permits. It was there to stay. Now that he had noticed just how sensual Aziraphale was in moments like these, he would never be able to  _ un-notice _ . 

Thank Satan he wasn’t making an Effort. His blood was rushing in all directions, seeking a place to direct all his sudden want. 

What. The. Fuck.

He stood before he even realized his body was moving. He needed to go. There was too much noise, too much light, too much Angel. He needed a dark, quiet place where he could figure out this shocking discovery all by himself.

Aziraphale looked stricken. “Crowley?” He started to stand as well, meal forgotten. “Are you quite alright, dear boy?”

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, along with a string of incherent syllables. He wished he wouldn’t look at him like that, like he was worried. He didn’t need his compassion!

“So soon?” The angels voice was rising in pitch along with his eyebrows. “Surely you can-!”

“I’ll see you around, angel.” Crowley cut him off before he could be swayed to sit back down and embarrass himself further. With the quickness that only a person who doubled as a snake possessed, he slid through the crowd.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called recklessly to his back. Too much. Too much. What was he doing? They could get caught if he yelled after him like that. 

He snapped his fingers and vanished himself back to his home, drew the curtains, blotted out the world, and sat.

What the fuck was wrong with him? 

...plenty, but more when he was with Aziraphale. Now he was apparently physically attracted to the fussy creature! Not that there wasn’t a lot to be attracted to. By Crowley’s standards, of which there was more than one might expect, Aziraphale was quite beautiful. Cloud white hair, blue sky eyes, a dazzling smile, soft in all the best places, hard in others. 

(Don’t think about hard. Don’t think about hard and soft meeting. Don’t think about it. Don’t.)

Oh.

Fuck.

He’d been thinking about this longer than he realized. 

Now. What to do about it?

Mope, apparently. Mope because he was a demon and Aziraphale was, most likely, the sweetest angel to have been molded from the ether. Hedonistic, yes. Friendly, yes. Neither of those things meant he’d be up for a quick shag in the nearest bath house. Bless it all, Crowley would never have the stones to ask anyways. Aziraphale was, literally, his only friend in the world, even if neither of them acknowledged it. 

He was fucked and not in the good way.

The letter materialized from nothing two days later, as if to hammer home the point that Aziraphale was too good for this universe, let alone a demon. He could taste the concern on his tongue before he even opened it.

_ “Crowley, _

_ I hope you are doing well. You looked so frightfully out of sorts when you left the other day that I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since. My first thought was that we were seen by one of our sides but I have been on a constant look out ever since and have found the area clear. _

_ Thus, I must conclude that I had done something to offend you.” _

Oh no. Crowley clutched the letter, nearly tearing it. 

_ “I wasn’t trying to tease you about you new name. My comparison to certain members of the corvid species was done in good faith as I really do hold the creatures in high esteem. However, if you were not flattered by my musings I apologize sincerely.  _

_ Your name is your own. I have heard that those that Fell lost their original names and had them replaced by Lucifer himself. If I might say so, he erred in naming you Crawley. You are far too fine a gentleman for such lowly name. Crowley is much better, if only because you chose it. It’s mysterious and, if I may be honest, dances off the tongue in a pleasant way.  _

_ I’ve gone on long enough. Again, I hope you are doing well.  _

_ Until we meet again. _

_ Mind how you go! _

_ ~A.” _

Too much. He couldn’t breathe, it was too much. 

No one had any right to be that nice, especially not to him. What on earth was the angel playing at? 

Crowley couldn’t deal with...with this incredibly kind letter on top of his other discovery. He thought, briefly, about writing back but…

It. Was. Too. Much.

A serpent, large and black as shadow, curled in the corner not long after. Yellow eyes staring into nothing as it disconnected from the world around it, seeking an escape in a dreamless sleep.

The letter pillowed his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a part from Aziraphales point of view but I cut it for future use in different circumstances. :P


	4. Chapter 4

_ Aziraphale, _

_ Sorry I ditched. Got a sudden overwhelming feeling that something was up. Nothing to do with you.  _

_ ~C. _

As far as reassurances went the note was lacking, not to mention nearly three years late. 

Three years of worrying, three years of questions, three years of wondering what he had done wrong. It was shameful how much Aziraphale’s mind wandered to the demon and his abrupt departure. No member of the Host should dedicate so much of their headspace to the enemy lest it was to plan how to smite them! 

The note was a poor reassurance and left a bad taste in his mouth. 

(It wasn’t signed as they traditionally signed, either. No ‘Mind How You Go’. It miffed him. It hurt for some reason.)

Aziraphale was not over it by the time they met next. 

Constantinople was a fine city that was growing finer with every passing year. Christianity, Islamism, and Judaism were blossoming within its borders. There were growing pains, for sure, as people debated and fought over the ‘correct’ beliefs as though they did not all worship the same ineffable force but Aziraphale had faith that they would overcome.

It was a perfect place for an angel to spread good will.

The library may have helped cement his love for the city. 

The Imperial Library of Constantinople was the last of the great libraries, thus precious beyond all measure in Aziraphale’s eyes. He had been there for the burning of Alexandria, mourning its loss before the embers had even cooled. Seeing such a great mass of knowledge cling to life in these modern times was good for his soul. 

He was working on a translation of an obscure, Grecian text when he felt a tell tale tingle at his left. “Hullo, Crowley,” he mumbled, crossly, without looking up from his work. He liked to think he learned his lesson about greeting the demon too warmly. 

There was a hesitation that was punctuated by the quiet of the library. “Aziraphale.” He said finally, voice a touch strained. “N-nice spot you’ve found here.”

“Thank you,” he responded in a clipped tone, giving the demon nothing to work with. He wouldn’t even look at him, no matter how much he wanted to gaze into his face and confirm that he was just as awkward and ashamed as he sounded. “I trust you’ve been well?”

“Uhm...actually...uh...could you…?” His breathing was strangely laboured, as if each word and fumbled attempt at speaking cost him dearly. 

Pained. He was pained. 

Aziraphale could ignore him no longer. He looked. 

“Oh! Crowley!” He exclaimed as he realized the state the poor thing found himself in. He was bloodied, one eye nearly swollen shut, lip split, nose broken, and hair matted with filth. Cut ran the length of his arms, tracing the spider webbing of his corporations veins, and vanished beneath the dingy material of the rough canvas he wore. One arm was at a strange angle that indicated a break.

There was the lingering, familiar feeling of a poorly blessed item.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet, knocking the ink over his translation work as he went. He wouldn’t notice until much later. A thousand questions danced in his forebrain but not one found purchase on his tongue. “Come with me,” he insisted instead. 

Crowley nodded slowly, exhausted, and stood only to nearly collapse the moment he tried to find his center of balance. 

Aziraphale steadied him, practically embracing him. “It’s quite alright. Don’t push. I can handle this part.” Freeing a hand he snapped-

-and they were directly transported to his humble flat. Well, humble for him. It was hard to get long term rentals in Constantinople, lately. Too many people. Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to take up more space than was needed, especially given the at times transient nature of his work. There was one window, one door, one chair, one underused sleeping mat, and hundreds of tomes and scrolls. 

It was on the mat that he laid Crowley and knelt by his side to examine the damage. “Oh my. A blessed blade was used for some of this...but not well blessed. Someone had evil in their heart when they performed the blessing.” 

Crowley nodded weakly. “Yeh. Cult. Got summoned. Hazards of being a demon.” His voice was unusually hoarse, nearly gone completely.

(Aziraphale dared not think about what had transpired to cause that level of overuse.)

“I see. Lured by the promise of easy riches, I suppose?” He could heal these wounds. It would be easy. Well, it would be if Crowley was human. What would angelic healing do to a demon? He was reluctant to find out. 

“Naw. Just wanted to play with me. This is the work of some group called-” He stopped, reconsidering. “Well. Doesn’t matter. They aren’t around anymore.”

Aziraphale worried at his lip. “As in they have all perished?”

“Not how I operate,” Crowley pouted as if offended, his split lip leaking red. “They’re just having a bad time right now.”

Aziraphale decided, rightly, that it was best not to question him further. Crowley could be quite creative when personally angered...or frightened.

(He’d need to pry the name of the cult from the wounded demon. Any order that would cause another individual malicious pain needed an angelic intervention. Nevermind the righteous anger that was flaming to life in his chest at seeing his...acquaintance so injured.)

“Crowley, what do you suppose would happen if I healed you?” He asked tremulously, a soft hand skirting over the deeper wounds. 

“Dunno. Hasn’t been done.” Crowley prodded at his split lip with his forked tongue, his brow knit in thought. “...demonic and angelic miracles are pretty hard to tell apart. Same original stock. Same well of power. Holy water kills us, though. Blessed weapon probably would have at least melted my discorporation if it had been done in good faith….”   
  
Aziraphale frowned. “You’ll forgive me if I’m reluctant to make you a guinea pig.”

The demon snorted, closing his eyes. “You can do whatever you want to me, angel.”

“Even destroy you while attempting to help you?”

“Preferably not but...it would be forgiven.” He smirked and winced at the same moment. “Just...do something, yeh? It burns something awful.”

(There was a vulnerability in his words. An unspoken confession that Aziraphale could hear the ghost of. ‘I trust you and will forgive you no matter what.’ Angels didn’t need to be forgiven, least of all by a demon. Yet...yet….)

There was no use in putting it off. He held his breath as he laid his hands upon Crowley’s arm and began to channel the smallest possible amount of holy energy into the shallowest of the wounds, testing both of their limits. For his part, it was easy. He could feel flesh knit together beneath his clammy palms, was aware of the ill begotten blessing being drawn out and replaced with his own, personal brand. 

He watched Crowley’s face. There was a soft gasp, a pinch at his eyebrows...then his expression went lax. “Ffffuck.”   
  
“Language, dear.”

“Sorry. Just...forgot what grace feels like. S’warm.” He sighed softly, his tense muscles loosening. “Thought it would burn me from the inside out, to be honest.”

“If you thought that why did you let me start?” Aziraphale chuckled to cover his alarm.

“Cuz it hurt...and you were my only option.” He cracked his good eye open, offered half a smile. “Another demon would have gutted me.”

“Deplorable,” the angel muttered sourly. “You were all angels once, you all fell together. Is there no honor?”

“I think the honor left with the grace, angel,” Crowley chuckled hoarsely.

“...you have honor.”

“Slander.”

“Really now.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I know that you do.”

“Don’t say it so loud. They think I’m strange enough as it is. Don’t need ‘em thinking I’m all...all….”

“Soft.” Aziraphale supplied with a voice as gentle as the word.

“...yeh. That.” Their eyes met and Aziraphale’s rarely used heart made it presence known, seeming to flip in his chest. He tore his eyes away and focused more energy into him, gaining another gasp and something sounded suspiciously like a quickly stifled  _ moan _ from the demon. 

(The sound was brief, languid but caught before Aziraphale could commit it to memory. Why he would want to was beyond him...or beyond his acknowledgement. Still, it was a noise he wanted to keep.  _ Just in case. _ )

Crowley kept his eyes and mouth clamper firmly shut for a long time after that, refusing to look at him, a flush on his cheeks. Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to tease and, honestly, it was easier to concentrate without the ebb and flow of their banter. 

It was well past dusk by the time they were finished and Crowley blinked into the summoned light of the oil lamp. Both eyes were fixed, his nose repaired, his lip as flawless as it had been the last time they spoke. His freckled flesh was pristine and free of filth.

Still. “Your hair is a bird nest, dear boy.”

A thin, self conscious hand moved to smooth fiery locks back but got tangled in the twisting curls. “Not like I had a brush handy.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to suggest a bath, was already conjuring the image of the fine, brass tub filled with hot water and essential oils in his mind, when Crowley snapped his fingers and righted himself, even fixing his robes to be something softer and black as night. A wave of disappointment swept over the angel. He...wasn’t ready to give up caring for the demon. Not yet.

...said demon swayed and flopped back down on the matt. 

“You’re drained.” Aziraphale chastised gently. “What did you do to use up so much energy?”

Without the cover of dirt Crowley’s flush was readily apparent. “Eh. You know. Demon stuff. Punishing mortals for their hubris. That kinda thing.”

“And no one died.”

“Not unless they killed themselves or each other, no.” He replied evasively. “...most likely they’ve just run off in all directions in terror.”   
  
“Hm.” Aziraphale tilted his head and, unthinkingly, reached for the newly healed arm to trace the spider web of his veins. “...what was the name of this cult, dear? I’ll have to look into them and make sure they don’t get up to further mischief.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not important. It’s done.” Crowley insisted, slit pupils narrowing. “Please.”

“If you insist….” He’d look into it on his own. Surely it wouldn’t be hard to retrace Crowley’s steps given the amount of energy he had apparently expended. He’d go on his own.

But, for now….

“You should rest, Crowley. Do you still nap?” He asked softly. 

“I do.” He made to sit up. “Thank you for the assistance. I’ll just-”

“No.” The tone of his own voice was surprising, as was the hand he placed on Crowley’s chest to ease him back down. “Just rest here. For a little while, at least.”

The demon swallowed as if something thick was in his throat. “I...you…what if….”

“I’ll leave,” Aziraphale reassured. “If Gabriel or anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be out. I’ll come back when I know you’ve left.”

(Gabriel rarely came by. It was of no concern, not really. The risk that he could, however, was too much. He had just healed Crowley and had no desire to see him destroyed for lack of vigilance.)

Crowley’s shoulders sagged and he relaxed beneath his touch. His heart was thrumming beneath his fingers. How odd. He didn’t know that Crowley put so much effort into making sure his corporations insides were as human as the outside. “If you insist, angel. Just...um...will you stay until I sleep? Must be that angelic aura or something but-eh-you...well...you aren’t unpleasant ...”

“Such flattery,” Aziraphale teased and summoned a blanket, draping it over him. “Still your silver tongue, serpent.”

“Ssshhhut up,” Crowley drawled, no heat and only minor annoyance. No sooner did the weight of the blanket settle than he was dead to the world, loose limbed and unaware. 

Aziraphale pat him on the chest, affectionate now that he found himself unobserved. Why had he ever been cross with him? Oh, right. The lackluster note and doubt. Well, water under the bridge now. 

He couldn’t be angry any longer. Fear finally crept in from where it had been lurking at the edge of his mind, like a cat of soft paws. Crowley could have been discorporated.

Crowley could have been made non-existent. 

All it would have taken was a more competent blessing and deeper punctures. Demons, he realized for the first time, were far less hardy than angels. An angel could only be taken out of the world by only two things: Hell Fire and the Almighty. Demons were basically vulnerable to anything with enough faith and blessings. 

The realization was alarming and came with an equally alarming acknowledgement. 

Aziraphale cared for Crowley’s well being.

(It was more than caring. His only semi-constant companion on earth had almost ‘bit the big one’ and left him alone. The thought was so unbearable that he locked it up tight and sealed it away, somewhere deep inside of him, never to excavated.)

Something needed to be done.

As predicted, it was easy to retrace Crowley’s path from the library to a crumbling, underground temple that may have been ancient when Jesus still walked the earth. True to his word, there were no corpses in the area, no sign of harm having come from a demonic source. There was a lingering sense of intense terror that made his sinuses itch and scuff in the dirt that resembled the tracks of a particularly large snake and scattered black feathers-

Ah. That was why he was low on energy.

Crowley had True Formed to mortals. No wonder they had run off in fear and madness. Aziraphale had never seen the demons true form but, no doubt, it was a sight to behold. If an angel could reduce a human to a pile of salt by exposing themselves it made sense that a demon could induce madness. 

He stopped suddenly, noticing for the first time the crude sculpture that took up the far wall. Before it was a summoning circle that still smelled faintly of sulphur and scattered candles. A crucifix was cleft cleanly in two a short distance from the sculpture. 

Michael the Archangel, flaming sword held high, over the depiction of a serpent. 

Michael, despite Biblical belief, had never had a flaming sword nor had she ever met the serpent of Eden. This depiction was merely a stand in for...for….

It had been a while since his smote anything, left of all a priceless ruin but Aziraphale did so gladly. He wanted it erased from earth, the universe, history. 

How awful it must have been, for Crowley to be summoned and stare up at a depiction of himself being slaughtered by his f- by his fffffrrr-

By his friend. Being slaughtered by his friend. 

Yet, when he escaped, he still came to that very same friend for help. Aziraphales chest just about split open, it could barely contain the confusing mix of wretched feelings that were tumbling together. 

(He came to him. He trusted him. Perhaps he had for millenia. Oh, Aziraphale was a bastard. How could he have denied his friendship for so long? He would need to continue, for their continued safety, but he would make it more apparent just how much he cherished their time together. There would be no room for doubt.)

True to his word, he returned to his small flat the next afternoon after he felt Crowley vacate. He had fought every urge in his body to not return sooner and throw himself at the demon’s feet and declare their friendship plainly, knowing it to be ill advised. Now the feeling turned to bitter regret at not having done so.

On top of a neatly folded blanket was a letter.

_ “Angel, _

_ You know what I want to say but I can’t do it plainly. If anyone caught wind of me thanking an angel I’d be in for it. Just know that I would have been hurting for a while without your intervention. _

_ I sent you a shit letter years ago. No doubt you’ve been brooding about it and that’s my fault. I was having a moment. I’m better now, I think. Got all the inconvenient parts stored away.” _

Hm. That...sounded familiar. He could relate to packing away disturbing feelings. 

_ “Probably best if we avoided each other for a bit. Knowing you, you’ve gone and looked up that cult and know now what it was all about. I don’t blame you. That was humans being humans, you know? Anything to get in with something they see as divine. That’s not why we should keep a distance.  _

_ I just had a thought as I was lying around this morning, about how similar demonic and angelic miracles are. I got to experiment with a few things and see how it goes. Don’t worry, if it goes well you’ll hear and if it goes poorly I’ll bear the burden.  _

_ I’ll see you when I see you. _

_ Mind how you go. _

_ ~C.” _

Aziraphale sat in his lone chair and reread the letter. The similarity between demonic and angelic miracles. What did he mean to do?

He had no idea whether he should be worried and curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Istanbul was once Constantinople and now it's Istanbul and not Constantinople? I wonder why Constantinople got the works?
> 
> Guess that's nobodies business but the Turks.


	5. Chapter 5

The lads scattered the minute Crowley returned to the keep, leaving him to divest himself of his shiney black armor on his own. Bastards, all of them. 

(He didn’t blame them. They knew what he was. The eyes gave it away. Called him a counter balance to that hack magician sitting in Arthur’s court and they already believed that one was the son of the devil. Of course they’d think he’d gut them if he was pissed off enough.)

He wasn’t mad with them. Heavens above, he wasn’t even angry with Aziraphale. 

Nope. His anger was entirely self directed. 

What had he been thinking?!

Centuries of careful research, stealthy practice, noting the differences in angelic and demonic powers and compensating...and what did he do? Just laid it out like it was an impulsive, self serving suggestion and  _ not _ something he’d been studying since that day in Constantinople. 

Excitement had gotten the better of him, he reasoned. He hadn’t been expecting to see Aziraphale emerge from the fog, all shining and knightly. He didn’t have time to get his act together, to be smooth and introduce the idea over a pint like he thought he’d might when they eventually ran into each other again. 

Aziraphale just made him absolutely bat shit and he couldn’t understand  _ why. _ He was a damn good demon! Not violent, not on the nose and slimey, not settling for the one soul when he could forment evil on a widespread scale.

(Never mind that the more far reaching his plots were, the more they left people with a freedom of choice. If they sinned, it was their own blessed fault...if they did not they earned their reward Above. It was all on them in the end. He wasn’t one to force anyone to do, well,  _ anything _ .)

He very nearly pitched his helmet at his bed chamber wall but the thought of unsightly scuff marks stilled him. It’s not like throwing a tantrum like a great sodding toddler would help anything. He’d screwed up and now he had to just own up to his own failure. 

Owning up required alcohol and lots of it. He had a private stash that he kept from the scoundrels singing bawdy ballads in the dank chambers below. Wine as red as blood, saved since France had been Gaul. No better time topple into the bottle. 

(He had imagined sharing it with Aziraphale. Had spent more time than was entirely decent for a demon imagining the joy that would spark up in those storm blue eyes, the little wiggle of delight as he took his first sip, the red sheen the drink would leave on cupid bow lips….)

He had fetched his favorite, snake engraved chalice when the dove alighted on his window and cooed insistently, drawing his attention. Hm, it was unusual to see one of those glorified pigeons out in these parts. 

Unless they had a keeper. 

He moved slowly towards it, trying to appear less like a predator and more like a normal, curious human. The bird was made of stern stuff, apparently, as it did not move except to ruffle its feathers in annoyance. He could see the note strapped to its leg and seized it with steady hands.

(It was a small point of personal pride, how much the infernal shaking in his hands had improved under his dedicated practice. He could now write legibly and quickly. He even kept a small, leather bound book hidden under his pillow if the urge to draw something particularly striking came to him. It wasn’t the same as creating stars...but it was satisfying, nonetheless.)

The bird took off the moment it was freed of its small burden, making sure to shit on his window sill before it left. Fair enough, he supposed, and miracled it away. 

The note was barely a scrap, torn from the corner of a book . 

“Midnight. Willow tree at North River. Alone.

~A.”

Fuck. What time was it?

It didn’t matter. The note was tossed to the top of his mattress and he began to dress. No armor this time, sod that. It made too much noise. If Aziraphale showed up in full knightly regalia, sword at the ready, he’d simply slip into his serpent form and escape into the night. 

Instead he wore leather and linen, the finest he had, and fixed his hair into plaits with a wave of his hand. The boys downstairs would be fine if he vanished, they were used to him coming and going. They didn’t question him jumping out the window anymore. 

Didn’t dare question.

He was about to do just that when the impulse to grab the wine he had been ready to crack open seized him. Aziraphale could be itching for a fight of some kind, sure, but there was very little that would soothe the angel better than good wine. 

The moon was high and the mist low when he arrived at the remarkable beauty of a tree. It was ancient, a survivor. Crowley had taken notice of it the minute he’d been in the area for longer than a few days, promptly imagining how decadent it would be to sit beneath it on a late spring day and sun himself. 

(It was bloody England, though. No sun to be had when one wanted it. It only showed its face when one was wrapped up in something time sensitive ad involved.)

He waded through the low hanging mist like a creature entranced, finally feeling unwatched enough to press a slender palm to the aged bark. Earth was a marvel. He had thought it was going to be Back Then, Up There but the reality was much better and much worse than he imagined. Humans were wicked and kind in equal measures, sometimes on the same day. There was no black and white, only shifting shades of grey. Some plants were toxic to even touch, others were ugly but smelled like a wonder. Animals were animals, just as they were meant to be, but some were loyal and intelligent in ways he had never predicted. 

Impulsively, since that seemed to be the theme for the day, he pressed his ear to the tree and listened in a way only a being that had been created from ether could. Listened to its green stories, its first glimpse of sun hundreds of years ago, its first rain, its first family of birds-

“Crowley?”

“FUCK!” He leapt away as if scalded and wheeled around to face the angel. 

“Language, dear boy!” Aziraphale scolded faintly, his brow pinched as if he had been confronted by a particularly difficult math problem. He glanced between Crowley and the tree, a question in his eyes, and Crowley was fully ready to lie his ass off-

But the question never came. Well, not the one he expected. 

“Is that wine?” Aziraphale nodded to the bottle curiously, casually dismissing what he had just walked up on.

“‘Tis. From Gaul.” He presented it proudly, like a cat that caught a mouse. 

“It’s not Gaul anymore, is it?” 

“Nope.” He fought back a joyous grin as he watched a delighted realization work its way into Aziraphale’s expression. Bingo. He knew he’d go gaga over it!

Aziraphale had come sans armor, sans weapon, sans entourage which did a great deal to easy Crowley’s nerves. He hadn’t truly thought Aziraphale would come prepared for a physical confrontation but...but he remembered what Aziraphale had been, once upon a time. Cherubs were born fighters, good ones at that. Principalities weren’t too bad either but more focused on the humanities aspect but one could never erase God given purpose, and Aziraphale’s peaked through sometimes, though Crowley dared not call attention to it.

Aziraphale didn’t seem comfortable with being reminded. 

They sat beside each other under the tree, allowing the mist to curl around them like a chilly blanket. 

They drank in silence for a while, Crowley sneaking side long glances whenever he thought Aziraphale wasn’t looking, only to often catch the angel attempting to do the same. His stomach did a flip each and every time they caught each others eyes. 

Lust was a heady thing.

(It wasn’t lust.)

“About...about earlier….” Aziraphale started after his cheeks began to flush from the wine. 

Crowley beat him to the quick. “My fault. It was a stupid idea.”

“I’m...not so certain?” Aziraphale admitted in worried tones, passing the bottle back to him, their fingers brushing briefly. “I got back to camp and started thinking, you see. Over the years, I have received quite a few commendations for miracles and blessings I have no memory of performing.”

“Zat so?” Crowley lifted the bottle to his lips, took a sip, most of it dribbled down his chin.

“Yes...yes it is so.” Aziraphale reached out distractedly, brushing the small spill away with his thumb and grinding all of Crowley’s thoughts to an abrupt halt. His hand lingered, turning the demons face to his. “Was that you?”

“Urk...ah...eh….” Those fingers on his face were warm-no-hot. So hot. He had to fight for his words. “Yeh. Sss’me. Jussst…just testing some theories. They really couldn’t tell the difference, huh?”

Aziraphale’s hand worked its way to his jaw, cupping his face as he studied him. “No, they couldn’t.” He paused, opening his mouth only to shut it. He repeated this action again...then closed his eyes.

His hand fell away.

Crowley felt distinctly colder. 

“We  _ are _ cancelling each other out, aren’t we?” Aziraphale sighed in what sounded like disappointment, taking the bottle back. 

(Disappointed about what? The fact that they had been working their arses off for little gain? Or...or had Crowley missed something crucial? Had he?  **HAD HE?** )

“Nh, mmmyeh. Looks like.” He nodded, watching more intensely than he meant too as Aziraphale swallowed. The bob of his adams apple, the stretch of soft skin on his neck. Just a lean and few inches and he could sink his teeth in, his fangs if he wanted, if Aziraphale wanted. He could do that! He’d done it for humans. He could certainly do it for an angel.

An angel. 

An angel who was in the good graces of the Lord. Not fallen. A good angel. Not lusty. Not temptable.

Fuck. What the fuck was wrong with him?!

(Intrusive thoughts aside, he refused to run off like he did in Rome so these inconvenient feelings were stuffed down.)

“How...how would this arrangement work?” Aziraphale asked at length, lips shining with wine in the way Crowley had always imagined. The angel didn’t meet his eyes, his head still tipped back so that it was rest on the tree, staring up at the boughs and into the dark, moonlit night. 

Radiant. He was radiant. 

(Stuff it down. Lock it up.  _ Why wasn’t it working? _ )

“Uhm...well...we’d...we’d flip for it, yeh? If there happens to be a conflict where both of us are in the same spot doing the opposite of each other, one of us will go and do both.” It wasn’t the eloquent draft that he had been working on in his head for the longest time but that was the best he could manage. Especially given how Aziraphale was being so distracting by  _ existing. _

“That’s actually very reasonable,” Aziraphale muttered thoughtfully, finally passing the wine back. He sagged a little. “I don’t know if I’d be able to do it, however. You’ve had years to practice passable blessings and the such. I’ve never done a temptation. I may not have it in me.”   
  


“Have you seen the way you enjoy things?” Crowley scoffed, shaking the bottle at him accusingly. “You’re a natural.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”

“It is from a demon,” Crowley grinned and took a calculated, careless swig. 

Aziraphale huffed, crossing his arms over his chest fussily, cheeks pink. “Now I am certainly not feeling complimented.”

Crowley laughed, shaking his head, able to see the denial for the surface level, petty thing it was. “Listen, how about this. We watch each other. I’ll do a blessing or whatever in front of you, so you know how I operate.”

“I already have proof of your talent, dear,” Aziraphale reassured, finally looking at him again. “I have no doubt that you’ve been doing a fine job.”

“Yeh but papers signed off by Gabriel isn’t the same as actually witnessing it, right?” He leaned in, lowering his voice to the level he typically used for more intimate temptations. “In return, you can take a stab at one of my temptations while I watch. We can even make up rules about what each of us will or won’t do!”

A blond eyebrow peaked curiously. “What won’t you do?”

That was a good question. Crowley considered it a moment. Demons weren’t known for a strong moral code but, upon reflection, there were some big no-no’s that he wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole. “I won’t redeem folk that deserve the Hell that’s waiting for ‘em. You know, priests that get off on abusing kids or taking advantage of widows, rapists that find their way into confessionals, baby killers, that stuff. The ones that got it coming to ‘em.”

Aziraphale nodded approvingly, seeming to find the stipulations agreeable. “Quite right.” He took the bottle back and swirled it, deep in thought. “I won’t kill.”

“I’d never ask.”

“I know. I just...wanted that made clear.” He was quiet for a moment longer. “I don’t wish to cause undue suffering. Some sins are quite enjoyable and I’d...I’d prefer to direct people in that direction. Um, theft might be fine if the circumstances agreeable.”

“Fussy, aren’t we?” Crowley teased, smiling fondly. 

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale bowed his head. “...when do we do this?”

“Doesn’t have to be right now.” Honestly his black knight gig was running long. Hell loved all the raids, robberies, and suffering he was causing. He hadn’t had a new assignment in forever. “When one of us gets something that fits the bill, we send off word to the other and meet up.” 

Aziraphale smiled, relaxing. “Perfect. That’ll give me time to, um, practice.” He tipped the bottle back again, drinking deeply.

“Practice?” Practice what? How? Crowley wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

(He desperately wanted to know.)

The bottle was shoved back in his hands and the angel rose, unsteadily, to his feet. “I must get back. I’ll be missed soon. I have a watch.”   
  
“Ah.” That was disappointing. All that time since they last saw each other and they had done nothing but talk business. He took a sulky swig from the bottle.

Or tried to, anyways.

“Oi! You bloody drained it!” He accused, launching to his feet. 

Aziraphale giggled, eyes sparkling with mischief in the moonlight, teeth flashing bright in the dark. Crowley’s annoyance died before it even got the chance to truly live. 

“It was so nice seeing you again, Crowley,” Aziraphale said sincerely. He paused, rocking on his feet for a moment, seeming to want to say more, but turning on his heel at the last minute. His hands clasped behind him. “Do stay in touch. I can’t thwart you if I don’t know what you are doing...or how you are doing.”

Crowley’s tongue was lead in his mouth, immovable and heavy. 

“Good night, dear.” It was said softly, as he strode away into the misty dark. Crowley was left alone.

With no one to watch he sank back down to his spot by the tree and brought his knees to his chest, pressing against the ache of longing that had settled there.

He didn’t know what he was longing for. 

(He did. He did.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be fun. (I hope.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Implied suicide. Not explicit but you'll get what's up.

A decade is nothing to a being that could, potentially, live for eons. Even so, ten years seemed to pass more swiftly that Aziraphale had ever thought possible. It was ten years of waiting for a new assignment or direction to perform a grand, heaven sent miracle, yes but it was also ten years of notes and letters. 

Crowley had taken him seriously and kept him in the loop more often. He was experiencing the same waiting that Aziraphale was so there was little in the way of news about what the Adversary was planning. Instead, he received notifications of what Crowley was doing of his own volition. 

_ “Lads were idle so I took them to shake down a keep. Nothing poor, mind you. One of those where the Lord was taxing the tar out of the peasants. Made the old bastard run through the pig pen in his knickers. Good fun.” _

_ “Have you been to Swallows Inn up the shore yet? The lager was good but the star was this potato thing. I don’t eat a lot but I ate every bite. You’d die over it.” _

_ “Fucking Ireland. Fucking Patrick. I’ve been warded! Can you believe that? When did he do that? ” _

For every note he responded with an update of his own. All of them, both sent and received, were signed the same way. 

“Mind how you go.”

Ten years passed and finally Aziraphale got word from Above of a blessing that needed to be done. What was even better was that it seemed to be a good fit to test Crowley.

(He didn’t need to test him. He knew he did this well. Crowley just kept  _ insisting. _ )

A note was sent off, a meeting arranged, and Aziraphale set off.

He was nervous. 

The last time he had seen Crowley he had drank the last of his wine. He wasn’t wary of the demon being upset over it as Crowley always seemed more than willing to share. No, what troubled him was deeper than a bit of pilfered booze. 

The image of Crowley, bathed in moonlight and shrouded in pale mist beneath a bending willow tree, was one that had stayed with him. His hair had been done up in plaits, his britches tight and shirt loose, exposing collar bone and a hint of his pale, flat chest. An alcohol flush to his cheeks, yellow eyes like welcoming lanterns, wine reddened lips….

Lust. He had lusted with all his body. It was behavior unbefitting of any angel, least of all a Principality that was supposed to guide humans to good, moral decisions. 

(If he had still been a cherub then maybe - _ maybe _ \- he could get away with a little bit of lust if love was involved. Technically, his form was still that of a cherub. A change of title couldn’t change what he had been created to be. Perhaps his true nature was why he was so affected? Yes. That had to be it.)

He often found himself picturing Crowley just as he was that night except...except they didn’t talk business or potential alliances in these fantasies. No, instead they drank wine and chatted. They shifted closer to one another until shoulders and outer thighs pressed together, close enough so that when they turned their faces to look at each other their noses would brush, breath stutter, one of them would lean in-

Anyways. 

Thoughts unbecoming of an angel.

The meeting point was to be in a small town in Northern Italy. Aziraphale had never heard of it but that was often the way with these things, one got to see all manner of location that they never knew of before setting foot on their soil. This down was of a ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ sort, mostly farmers, mostly mud, and mostly poor. Even the sole church was run down and doubled as a school house for those too young to assist their families in the field.

There was no inn, forcing Aziraphale to barter with a stable owner for a cramped, foul smelling room above the horses. He ended up paying out the nose, despite his best efforts.

He made visible in the town, noting the people and their patterns, as he waited on pins and needles. He couldn’t be still. If he was on his feet he was pacing, if he sat on a low wall he was fidgeting with his hands or bouncing his leg. 

(Where was he? Was he not going to come? Did that mean something happened or he had just lost interest? Aziraphale could understand the latter. Gabiel had once offhandedly commented that he talked far more than was needed, that he needed to get to the point because he was boring when he went on and on. Crowley never seemed to mind his endless rambling but what if-)

“Angel, you’re brooding.” The voice came from his left. There sat Crowley, as if he’d always been there.

Oh.

As if  _ she’d _ always been there.

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinked, trying to clear his thoughts and take in this new presentation in one go. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you like that.”

“I’m like ‘that’ more often than you think. You just haven’t run into me.” She smirked, pleased with herself. She adjusted her smoke gray dress to make sure no mud stuck to the hem before folding her hands neatly before her, sitting up straighter than she would as a male, legs together. “Do you not like it?”

He did, if only because she was still Crowley. Still familiar, still the same no matter the parts attached. “It’s not that. I’ll get used to it,” he skillfully deflected. “I’m just curious about the change.”   
  
Crowley shrugged her thin shoulders, loose ringlets coming free from precarious perches and cascading over her freckled collar bone. “No one suspects a woman of being up to anything.”   
  
“You say that like we’re going to do something unsavory.” His hand was reaching before he could stop it, tucking the loose strands behind her ear.

(Soft. He always thought Crowley’s hair would be soft.)

Crowley chuckled while producing a rather confusing series of syllables, reached up to the strand Aziraphale had tucked away, almost fretfully. “Ah- Eh. Well. Blessings are...um...is it a blessing? Or a miracle?”

“A minor blessing. It’s quite boring, honestly.” Aziraphale seized upon the opportunity to talk about their work. If not he’d torture himself wondering if _ he _ had flustered her like that. 

(Impossible.)

“Alright then.” She adjusted herself so she was sitting closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratory hush. “Lay it on me.”

“The pastor of this church had the makings of a great spiritual leader. He’s kind, charitable, loving, and a true believer of the Almighty.” Aziraphale sat straighter, proudly. “He could guide others by example and brings us into a bright new age of goodness.”

Crowley nodded slowly, taking in this information. “So...the blessing is to...what? Help his word reach others?”

Here Aziraphale began to deflate. “Well...no. The blessing isn’t for him, exactly. You see, there is a woman-”

“-oh no-”

“-and she’s become somewhat of a temptation for him. She loves him deeply but if he were to settle with her he may never reach his full potential. He’d never leave this town, he’d devote less time to the Almighty and more to her. Head office would like to see her blessed so that her affections are redirected.”

He watched the demon carefully. The dark glasses his her eyes near perfectly but there was no disguising the down turn of her fair mouth and the concerned wrinkle in her brow.

“...does he feel the same?”

“Pardon?”

“Your pastor. Is he, you know, reciprocating.” Crowley kept her eyes fixed on a patch of dirt a little away from them, face stony. 

“Well, he must a little.” Aziraphale reasoned. “They wouldn’t have felt the need to ensure she found someone else if he was going to reject her.”

“...do you see the problem here?”

“Crowley-” He began in his most reassuring tone of voice, unsure what he was going to say, but Crowley held up a hand and fixed him with a look that could be felt even through her dark glasses.

“I thought angels were all about love.” She was seething, quite literally. There was a hint of fang and forked tongue.

“It’s unfortunate, yes, but if he wants to be a good servant of the almighty-”

“-does he?”

“-then this is the price to be paid!” Aziraphale realized he had raised his voice only when he noticed people staring. Wincing, he took Crowley by her wrist and dragged her away to a more private copse of trees like a sulky, demonic rag doll.

“Price to be paid. Does he know that? Is he willing?” She continued to hiss. “Does he know that he’s a game piece?”

“I...I…” Aziraphale heaved a sigh. “Those are my orders.”

“So some other wordly force is going to come in and stomp on a star crossed romance on the off chance that this man is going to be a ‘great spiritual leader’. Humans aren’t that tidy. You know that.” Crowley leaned in pushing her glasses up. “Surely you know by now that people do stupid, ridiculous, fantastic,  _ nonsense _ things when they are arse over heels in l-love.” 

“I’m sure it will be alright. He loves God.” Aziraphale nodded certainly, even as his stomach twisted uneasily. There was truth in the demons words. Head Office wouldn’t know that humans did insane things when emotionally compromised, not the way Aziraphale did. He’d witnessed more than one crime of passion in his time on earth. “Faith in God’s love will heal him.”

“God’s love is very conditional,” Crowley snarled, fangs bared. 

“Look, if you don’t want to do it I will.” Aziraphale huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Those are my orders. I can’t disobey, I’m an angel. You, however, are not under any obligation-”

“My obligation is to you,” she snapped and immediately recoiled as her words lingered in the air. Glasses were pushed down over a fine nose and the demon turned away. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it for the sake of our potential arrangement. I want you to remember this, though, when it comes time to do a temptation.”

She began to walk away, gait determined. 

“Will you need any assistance?” Aziraphale called helplessly at her retreating back. 

“I got it.” Crowley called with but a glance over her shoulder. “Demons are used to ruining lives.”

Aziraphale winced.

With time on his hands as he waited for Crowley to orchestrate her blessing, he returned to his rented room and attempted to read. It turned out to be a rather fruitless endeavor. 

Star crossed lovers...he’d never heard the phrase before. It was poignant, its meaning simple to discern based on context clues. Two individuals that love each other despite impossible circumstances and are doomed to never be together. Just the kind of gloomy outlook a demon would come up with. 

(Except he didn’t see Crowley as gloomy, did he? Anxious, prone to asking questions to which there were no answer, and too clever for their own good. Never gloomy. They always smiled around him, always had a joke or a story. They never failed to make Aziraphale laugh as well.)

Star crossed lovers...star crossed lovers….

(Were-were he and Crowley…?)

His book snapped shut and he stood. He was suffocating in his lodgings. He needed air. 

It had been a few hours. Perhaps he could check to be sure Crowley had done as asked? She had been quite hesitant, after all. Maybe she’d need the moral support.

Once outside he breathed deeply, finding the open air only moderately less laced with fecal matter than that which was inside. At least there was sunshine, that did a lot to buoy his spirits. 

Said spirits promptly came crashing down as he caught sight of the pastor, leaning heavily on the railing that led up to the stairs to the rickety church. His gaze was unfocused as he stared, numbly, across the town square. Aziraphale followed the gaze, already suspecting he knew what he’d find. 

Ah, yes. The young woman. Crowley had found her. There was no sign of the red headed demon, but the tingle of a fresh blessing was dissipating in the air. The lovely lady was smiling, giggling, touching the arm of a wealthy young man. A merchant. Not a great soul, Aziraphale could recognize, but one that would treat her like a queen. 

The pastor turned and went back inside his church as the object of his affections reached out to caress the handsome young man's face. 

Well. All done, then.

(His chest hurt, throat tight, mouth dry. He needed alcohol and sweet food yet there was no pub. There was nothing to take comfort in.)

“Ssso?” He jumped as Crowley’s voice slipped into his left ear.

“So? So...what?” He asked stupidly, blinking up at her. She was still hissing. No doubt, still angry with him. 

“Was that done to your satisssfaction?” She asked, face carefully free of any type of strong emotion. 

“Ah! Yes. Well done.” He cleared his throat, trying to rid himself of the unexpected hoarseness that was affecting his voice. “Bravo.”   
  
Crowley hummed, looking past Aziraphale to the young woman and her new beau. “I tried to choose someone that would take her away from here. So, your pastor can work in peace.”

“Good thinking,” Aziraphale praised faintly, fidgeting with the ring on his pinky. “Absence will be good.”

“Or it will make the heart grow fonder.” She echoed his faintness with a distracted earnestness that suggested she knew this to be a fact. Before he could question it, however, she gave herself a little shake. “Let’s get outta here, angel. Where are you staying?”

“Above the stables,” he informed with no small amount of embarrassment. “There’s no inn.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “Ew.”

“Hm, quite. It’s far from ideal.” He sighed deeply and forced himself to be polite. “You’re welcome to stay if-”

The bell of the church sounded unexpectedly. It wasn’t Sunday, school was not in session, and there was no grand occasion to celebrate via exuberant chimes. The town stilled in stunned confusion as a second, weaker toll shook the air, then another, even fainter….

Crowley’s sharp face paled as she gazed up at the steeple. “C’mon, angel. Let’s go. Next town over has an inn and that sauce you keep going on about.”

Aziraphale stayed rooted where he was, watching with dawning dread as some curious town folk filed into the church to see what had happened. “Crowley.”

She was pulling him. “Angel, come on. Aziraphale!”

He moved half a step, eyes still fixed on the scene unfolding. “What happened.” It wasn’t a question.

(He already knew. He could feel it. The loss, the despair, the-the-the-)

“Aziraphale….” Never had he heard Crowley speak his name so softly, so concerned. 

Someone in the church screamed, another sobbed. 

“Oh.” His voice was but a whisper. “Love does make them fools, doesn’t it?”

He finally let himself be pulled away. He didn’t notice where they were going. Didn’t care, really. “He was a good man,” he continued brokenly. “He was going to be a good leader. I didn’t...didn’t think. I thought God would be enough ...”

“Not our fault, angel. Not your fault at all. Blame it on me in you report.” She was speaking hurriedly, trying to fill the gaps in his mind. “Tell ‘em that the Adversary got here first and sowed the seeds of destruction or something. It’s wasn’t you.”

“It wasn’t you either, my dear.” Reassuring others was second nature. He patted her hand where it had a firm grip on his arm, felt it grip harder. “It was orders. I’ll file this as the result, no demons involved. Perhaps...perhaps then they’ll reconsider in the future.”   
  
Crowley looked back at him, something akin to pity in her pretty features. Her disagreement was silent yet still rang just as loud as the church bells. 

(They wouldn’t reconsider. They’d write that poor man off as not being strong enough, pure enough, angelic enough. It was human folly, not divine intervention at fault. Aziraphale knew but...but he hoped it wouldn’t be the case.)

Crowley led him away. A miracle must have come into play at some point because, far sooner than should have been possible, he was sitting at a table drinking something thick and nearly pure alcohol. The next he was hazy and being supported up crooked stairs. A straw mattress hit his back, a warm body tumbled on top, and amber filled his vision. 

For a moment, he gripped that warm, comforting weight by the hip. It stilled, not breathing.

His consciousness was fading. “Oh. I’m passing out.” 

Distantly, someone cleared their throat. “Sss’okay. Sssleep it off. Dream of...of whatever you like best, angel.”

Something wet and warm was pressed to his forehead, diffusing pleasant heat all through his body. 

(He dreamed of red and yellow and black and heat pressed to him and whispered words-)

The next afternoon, when he awoke, he felt trashed. Alcohol and residual feelings cluttered up inside of him. 

He was alone except for his report, written in a clever forgery of his own writing, and a note. 

“Angel,

Don’t torture yourself. It’ll drive you crazy. Believe me, I know.

You knew this was wrong. You knew it could go badly. These are the consequences. Just following orders sometimes sucks. Think of yourself as a hammer. A hammer needs to be swung, it can’t do it by itself, right? You (and I) got swung at a fragile nail but the fault lies not with the hammer, but with the one not understanding that not all nails are made equal. 

Did that make sense? I’m not a writer.

The room is paid for and the inn keep will have a good meal for you when your ready. Rest up, pamper yourself. My treat.

I’ll be in touch sooner than later, promise.

Mind how you go.

~C.”

An angel was weeping for the unexpected kindness of a friend before they even reached the last line. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one will be sillier. In this house we see-saw between light angst, pining, and stupidness and we LIKE IT.


	7. Chapter 7

Temptations and curses could be nasty business, depending on the demon handling them. Crowley considered himself a demon of a sterling caliber, therefore he made it his personal mission to make anything that he signed his name too was grand, showy, and only sowed nastiness if the humans involved decided to be prats about it. He was a master of of the hard right turn, the swerve, misdirection and the prince of mass inconvenience. 

He was, to sum up, a professional annoyance. 

Sometimes, however, his directions were explicit down to the letter, leaving him very little opportunity for clever subversion. He was the predominant demon managing earthly affairs, after all, and if he didn’t want some wanker like Duke Hastur or- heaven forbid- one of Legion’s bunny eared fuckers stealing his precious sunshine he had to put the hours in. This often meant getting his hands dirty in uncomfortable, unpleasant, and most certainly unconscionable ways. 

(He never spoke of these assignments to Aziraphale. Dared not, lest he see him for the wicked thing he was. Fuck, he didn’t even like thinking about some of his assignments in retrospect. Many kept him up at night. He didn’t need to sleep but still, it was a shadow he had to fight to banish.)

Crowley knew he needed an assignment that provided an extraordinary amount of wiggle room to test Aziraphale on. Nothing with firm instructions or questionable outcomes. After the blessing fiasco he couldn’t risk it going sour. 

It needed to be fun. 

No. Not just fun. It had to be  _ Aziraphale Fun _ . Food, drink, music, interesting conversations, a beautiful location-

He was being picky, sure, but it would be worth is if he could get this Arrangement rolling. Anything for him to do less work.

(Anything to avoid conflict with Aziraphale.)

It turned out that “anything” included sauntering down to Hell for something other than a performance review, presentation, or filing for the first time in centuries. He walked with a purpose through the cramped, dingy hallways, keeping his glasses up and eyes forward. Curious looks and, more often, scowls were cast in his direction as he slipped and slid his way through the unwashed bodies, intent on his target.

There was a wall between the Flogging and Filing offices littered with layers upon layers of molding, yellowing papers. The Classifieds Wall, is what they called it which was rather apt as the notes and papers held all manner of request or offer. This was the place to look for a minor assignment that someone else just didn’t want to be bothered with. 

He looked over the newer slips with a critical eye. 

“WANTED: Bat wings. Will pay in frogs legs-”

Nope.

“job available terrorizing a family that have settled on top of Hell Gate 60B-”

Yeh, Aziraphale wouldn’t go for that. 

“LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME? COME TO ASMODEUS’ HOUSE OF PLEASURE. SECOND CIRCLE, FOLLOW THE WAILS. NO SUCCUBUS/INCUBUS. EAT ABOVE!”

Huh. They actually gave him Amodeus a permit after. Good for him. 

“Looking to be rid of an assignment. Human target is a spinster, not Church going but baptized/confirmed. Mild temperament. Looking to join a convent. I’ve redirected her to a Spring Festival in Rus. Was planning to debauch but I trod on a certain Princes foot and now I am without appropriate equipment. Expect half credit for laying groundwork!”

He reread it. Then again. No caveats, no explicit violence, _ potential for partying _ ? Yes, yes! This was the one! Perfect! 

The paper was promptly snatched from the wall and stuffed in his pocket.

He had an angel to see. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They met at a crossroads. 

Crowley had taken time to mentally prepare himself yet he was still a little bit thunder struck when Aziraphale appeared, all creams and white, on the dirt road. He looked much the same as he always did but, somehow, seeing Aziraphale casually treading towards him with a ghost of a smile always sent his thoughts running for the hills. This was an annoying habit that had only gotten worse. 

He could still remember his moment of weakness, after the botched blessing. Aziraphale was sauced, barely present, and all Crowley had wanted to do was make sure the angel made it to a horizontal surface before he passed out on the floor. The angel was more solid than she thought he would be, stronger too. Down he went to the mattress and he clutched her like a life line as the world upended. Hand on her hip, breath at her cheek, Aziraphale mumbling indecipherable half sentences in what might have been a strange hybrid of Hebrew and Enochian.

She had lingered there, draped across him and soaking up his warmth, for much longer than she really should have.

She had kissed his cheeks, his forehead, but not the lips. Couldn’t. It wasn’t right, it went against his personal code.

...she came close, though. In the present, even after a change of Effort and Presentation, he could still remember the way his breath had tasted as it ghosted over their mouth- 

(He wouldn’t remember, right? No. Surely he’d have written about it if he had. A polite dressing down about how Crowley couldn’t tempt him. No such letter had ever arrived.)

Crowley smiled and approached with an easy swagger, meeting him more than half way. “Travel well?”

“Well enough,” Aziraphale replied honestly. “Slow business, traveling the human way. Horses and carts are dreadful, especially with these kind of roads.”

“Maybe one day the human way will include flying,” Crowley commented and fell into step at Aziraphale’s side, guiding while also staying just a touch behind. It was as if Aziraphale could intuit where they were to go now that they were together. 

“What? You think they’ll sprout wings?” Aziraphale laughed at the thought, flashing him a smile. “I don’t believe I saw that in the designs.”

“You weren’t there for the rough drafts,” he grinned teasingly, and continued easily. “Anyways, I’m talking more about invention. They’ll come up with something that’ll take ‘em right up where angels dare not fly or something.”

It took an abnormally long pause in their normally easy flow of conversation for Crowley to realize that Aziraphale was looking at him strangely, giving him a critical once over.

“You saw them, did you?”

He blinked stupidly. “Saw what?”

“The rough drafts.” Aziraphale definitely was studying him now, like a bug caught under a spyglass. 

Ah, fuck. “Eh. Yeh. Always poking my nose where it didn’t belong, even then. I Fell for a reason you know.”

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement but not acceptance. It was okay. Crowley could deflect like a champion, after all. He wouldn’t even have to lie, depending on just how on the nose Aziraphale’s questions were. He needn’t have fretted as the angel surprised him once again.

He didn’t ask.

“Now, you sly serpent, are you going to tell me why we’ve come all the way to the Slavic lands or am I to bumble about?” Aziraphale turned his face back to the road, perring down it curiously. “I feel many happy emotions up ahead. Love and joy. I would hate to spoil the festivities.”

Crowley, never one to question good fortune or an opening when offered, seized upon this line of conversation with a death grip. “Alright, so there’s this spinster that is thinking about joining a convent. I did a bit of recon and I’ve found that her community are distrustful of her, they think she’s a witch or some shit.”

“Is she?”

“Naw. She just grows her own herbs and understands pain relief.” Humans could be so dense sometimes. The Almighty had put everything on Earth to have a purpose, to serve or aid her chosen children, yet they had a rather alarming habit of destroying things before they fully understood it.

Crowley, at times, found it a bit hard to wrap his head around. 

“Are we to stop her from joining a convent?” The angel had that tone in his voice. The one that signalled he was conflicted or, at the very least, trying to see the benefit this would have for Hell.

“You got it. I can’t say I know why it’s important she remains free as a bird but, if I had to guess, she’ll probably end up doing something to defy God. Like-” he paused, casting about in his own mind for a possible reason- “creating a drug that makes people slothful or aiding some down on his luck fiend. Who knows?”

“Who knows indeed,” Aziraphale muttered, wringing his hands uneasily.

“...are you thinking about that blessing?” Crowley hazarded, watching as the one hand wrung the other so tightly that its flesh whitened. That was a yes, then.

“What if her joining the convent is of a benefit to my side? Not as a worshipper but as someone who would get the resources she needed to become a healer?” Aziraphale worried at his lip, eyes distant. 

“That’s the challenging and-uh-funnest part of orchestrating a temptation, angel.” Was funnest a word? He hoped so. “Free will means a human will decide for themselves, regardless. If this lady is dead set, she’ll go on to a convent no matter what you and I whisper in her ear. If there’s any sliver of doubt, though, she’ll give in.”

“Ah...it’s like a test of faith!” Aziraphale beamed at him. “That’s simple!”

“If that’s how you want to see it?” Crowley shrugged, not about to disagree if that’s what the angel needed to be more at ease. “Just remember, my name goes on this so it needs to be good.”

“You mean bad, yes?” The angel flashed him a bastard smile that made his internal organs do something strange and flippy. “I heard music in the forest. I assume we’re headed to some kind of revelry?”

“Yeh, some kind of pagan festival. I don’t know much about it beyond that.” He tilted his head, honing in on the faint music and fainter voices, veering from the road into the forest. “Our target is already here, I saw her go in while I was hanging around waiting on you.”

Aziraphale was practically floating, a hand fluttering over his chest. “The love and joy in the air is very near palpable. What kind of festival is this, my dear?”

Crowley opened himself up to his surroundings, trying to get a read on what the angel was picking up on. He got love, albeit faint, but he was ultimately the most powerful things he got were lust and gluttony. Love and joy, lust and gluttony....oh. 

Aziraphale seemed to have come to the same conclusion because, as they broke into the clearing, they exchanged matching knowing looks. “I think this is a...Spring Festival, my dear boy.”

Huh. He’d never heard ‘Fertility Festival’ put quite so delicately. 

All around were flower garlands and wreaths, women and men in white, tables heavily laden with food and drink, and a large bonfire in the middle of it all. They were late arrivals, many of the humans were already heavily inebriated and getting a tad to handsy in open places. Crowley cringed, imagining the angels reaction to such debauchery.

Except, when he looked, the angel not only appeared unbothered but was smiling beatifically. “How lovely,” he sighed happily, practically starry eyed. “It’s so easy to forget how easy it can be.”

“Wh-what can be?” Crowley managed, his treacherous tongue tying knots in his mouth. 

“Love! All it takes is some wine and music.” He drifted, intent on the buffet tables full drink. 

“You mean lust. Come dark this is going to be a fuckfest.” Crowley wrinkled his nose. Orgies were never his scene. He preferred his carnal temptations to be private shows full of sharp shadows, flickering candle light, and the perfect words. What use was a temptation when the target already had both feet in?

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale reprimanded mildly, mostly out of habit. “Most of these people will be married. That’s the intent of these kind of festivals, you know. A good harvest, new love, and healthy children.”

“And fffff-” blue eyes snapped in his direction- “fffornication. Lot’s of it.”

A wooden cup of sweet smelling wine was pressed into his hands, fingers brushing in a way that seemed nearly intentional. 

(Was it? No. How else was he going to hand him a bloody cup?!)

“Are you embarrassed, Crowley?” Oh, he did _ not _ like how mirthful that smirk was. 

“Aren’t you?” He countered, more harshly than he meant.

“Not at all! Love in all forms and ways is beautiful.” He took a confident sip of his drink. “Now, if you’re quite done being bashful, point me in the direction of this woman so that I may enjoy the offerings without it hanging over my head.”

The temptation, if it could be called that, went surprisingly well. Aziraphale had a knack for it, working in much the same Crowley himself would. The woman was found in a quiet corner, by herself, looking rather lost and uncertain why she had come. 

Aziraphale had strode up to her, drink in hand and smile on his lips, and chatted with her until she was smiling. Then he plied her with drink and food. It was when the conversation got hushed and obviously personal that Crowley backed off, unable to linger any longer without it being obvious he was eavesdropping. 

He amused himself with drinking copious amounts of alcohol and watching the horse shoe toss, not by playing but making a nuisance of himself. Shoes that seemed certain to land would veer off in strange directions or bounce off the peg when they were hooked. He made a bit of a game of it, taking a drink every time someone yelled out in impotent frustration.

It was on the later side dusk and he was well past tipsy when he realized he hadn’t checked in on the angel for a while. The music was growing bawdy, the crowd drunk and rowdy. Aziraphale was probably floundering, trying to escape raucous humans and get back to...to whatever he did with his free time when he wasn’t with Crowley.

Instead he found the angel flushed with drink, dancing with their target and a bunch of other humans to the point he was perspiring, and smiling from ear to ear. He looked free as a bird, unburdened by the outside world. Their eyes met briefly and Aziraphale winked playfully. 

He was beautiful.

Oh. 

_ Oh. _

**_OH._ **

_ This was love. _

The realization sent him fleeing into the woods the minute he was sure he wouldn’t be noticed doing so. He crashed through branches bearing spring growth and flowering bushes as if he were being pursued by both the Host and Horde, trying to escape the feeling. It was fruitless, ofcourse, as it had already caught him. Bless it all, it probably caught him millenia ago and it just took him this long to catch on!

The clearing he found was small and dark, the music and laughter echoing through the trees. He barely heard it. 

“What the fuck?  **What the fuck?!”** He directed his question at the darkening sky, more hysterical than enraged. “Is this a joke? A punishment? As if You haven’t done enough, now I’m finding out You left me with  **THIS?!”**

The sky didn’t answer but he knew She was there, probably smirking in that infuriating way of Hers as he melted down. He paced and continued to rant at the silent sky. “You took it all! The Grace! The Love! I’m not  _ supposed _ to be like this! None of the others are like it! Why me?!”

Again, nothing. He sank to his knees in despair. “...it’s not fair. It’s cruel. Most of all, it’s unfair to  _ him. _ If he wants to be my friend that’s fine but it’ll be deceptive, yeh? I’ll be over here pining away while he thinks I’m just being a good companion. It’s fuckin’ duplicitous, even for me.”

He fell to his side and rolled to his back, slinging his arm over his eyes with intentional drunken drama. “...and…and if he were to...to...reciprocate. He’d Fall, right? Or it would put him on the Hosts shit list. There’s no way this doesn’t end in some grand, fucking tragedy.” 

(Later, he’d feel more optimistic, as he often did when he gave himself time to adjust to the unexpected. Later, he would be sober and better to handle epiphanies of the heart. That was Later. Now he was drunk, damned, hopelessly in love with an angel, and confused. Right Now, he was a mess.)

Crowley lost track of time, taking solace in the distant music and voices, the blankness behind his eyelids, and the feel of grass at his back. He could mourn the loss of his dignity in peace. 

Even when he heard the snap of a branch and the soft trod of foot steps he didn’t flinch or open his eyes. No humans would find him. They’d sense there was something lurking in the shadows and avoid his little clearing at all cost. 

“Crowley?”

Ah. That trick wouldn’t work on an angel, though. 

He opened his eyes and realized the moon, full and bright, had risen high in the sky. Oh, he’d been there a few hours. He must have passed out in his fit of angst. 

Aziraphales face loomed into view, blotting the moon so that it appeared like a halon behind his head, illuminating downy white curls while casting his pleasant, round face in shadow. His brow was pinched with mild concern, smile a touch baffled. 

He was absolutely stunning and Crowley felt the pain in his heart ignite anew. 

“Had a bit too much to drink did you?” Teased Aziraphale, studying Crowley’s face from his lofty position. 

Crowley shrugged as best he could in his current position. “Just needed a moment.” He paused. “...I am totally sauced, though.”

“Ah. Good. So am I.” Aziraphale’s face pulled out of his line of sight, leaving him with the man in the moon. A second later the angel was laid next to him, their arms touching, a too hot line of contact that made the burning in his chest scald. “Temptation accomplish, by the way.”

“What?” The demon panicked. He hadn’t meant to tempt. Was he doing it by accident? He didn’t want Aziraphale to lust after him, not while he was dealing with this. He wouldn’t be able to refuse. Crowley would give and give and give, whatever Aziraphale wanted, however he wanted it, expecting no love in return. He’d kill himself from the inside out-

“The woman? She has decided to stay in this area. Another young woman has caught her ardour.” He announced proudly. “You’ll have quite the report to send off!”

“Great.” Right. The temptation. The Arrangement. “How’d you find it?”

“Tempting?” Aziraphale hummed in thought. “...it’s different. I expected it to be foul, distasteful work but, in the end, I guided a woman to pleasure so I find I can’t be unhappy. I think I can get used to it.”

Despite himself, Crowley smiled faintly. “Glad to hear it.”

For a time they simply laid next to each other, staring up at the moonlit sky, Crowley locating familiar specks of distant light and remembering what love had once been like, at the Beginning. The softness, the all encompassing warmth, the devotion...all the things he had felt towards Aziraphale for years now. He was an idiot, to not catch on quicker. 

“...did you see the rough drafts for those as well, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, voice slurred and gentle. 

Crowley fought not to wince. “...naw. There were no rough drafts for stars. You just...knew how to make ‘em.”

“Did you make any?”

“A few.” A lot. More than he could possibly name or count. 

“What was it like?”

It was grand. It was beautiful. It was important, all encompassing, and intense. It was like having the greatest orgasm of one’s life while jumping off a cliff without uncasing ones wings. It was like the incandescent thing that had taken residence inside him.

“It was neat, I guess.” Crowley finally said with careful nonchalance. 

Aziraphale laughed softly. “I suspect you’re underselling it.”

He had no idea. 

“...I had a wonderful time tonight. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” Their pinkies brushed as Aziraphale shifted slightly closer. “I have a feeling you orchestrated to be as such.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” scoffed Crowley, hoping he kept a note of terror out of his voice. Aziraphale could never know how hard he worked to get this temptation, especially not now after his revelation. It would be too obvious, too raw.

“I appreciate it. The...the last time we were together has haunted me.” It was a confession, quiet and plain. “Now I’ll have a lovely memory to replace the awful.”

To this Crowley could say nothing so he made a noise that he hoped would be interpreted as some kind of response. Aziraphale was too drunk, too close, too honest. How was a demon in love to cope? 

“I’ll need to leave soon. It’s too risky for us to spend too long together.” How regretful the angel sounded. Like he wanted nothing more than to alternate between drinking, eating, dancing, and lying beneath the stars until the end of time. “Though, I suppose, I spent very little time with you at all.”

(Was that disappointment? Crowley dared not consider it for long.)

“I’ll write,” Crowley said, voice low and careful. “Promise. Gotta for the Arrangement.”

“Yes. For the Arrangement.” The angel made no effort to move. “...although, I do not mind if you write me outside of that. I don’t get much by way of personal correspondence and it was refreshing to receive your little updates.”

A lump was in Crowley’s throat and he was finding it increasingly difficult to speak around it. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Again, no effort was made for them to part ways. The stars twinkled above, the music echoed through the trees, and two ethereal beings were pretending that the entirety of the universe didn’t exist outside of them. A soft, pale hand crept carefully over the top of a thin, trembling one-

Then a young couple crashed through the trees, locked together in an embrace, and the two beings found their slice of the universe invaded. They leapt to their feet and away from each other as if repelled by an unseen force. The young couple giggled, apologized, and scampered deeper into the dark to better know each other. Crowley watched them go with envy, missing how the angel did much the same.

Aziraphale cleared his throat, disinbriating himself with a wince. “Ah. Well then. Jolly good. I’ll hear from you?”

Crowley did the same, smacking his lips as a foul taste replaced the haze of drunkness. “You will. Um….” He floundered, unsure how to go about parting ways with some level of casualness. 

(Satan help him, he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to know how Aziraphale’s heavenly palm felt against his own, to memorize the shape on his knuckles and the whirls of his finger prints. He wanted to see if their hands slotted perfectly together, like two halves of a whole.)

Aziraphale made the move. “Mind how you go, Crowley,” he murmured, voice suspiciously hoarse. A snap of his fingers and he was gone.

Crowley lingered a moment longer, casting an accusatory, lost look skyward, and followed suit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll lemme know of you're Feeling It up in here, k?


	8. Chapter 8

It was the late fourteenth century and things had been miserable. Plague, famine, war, and Death seemed determined to end the world early. There was no place that Aziraphale went that did not contain the echo of their hooves.

To make matters worst Crowley had stopped writing.

Oh, Aziraphale didn’t worry at first. There had been times when paranoia or a surprise visit from their respective offices doused their communication. Depending on the assignment, it could be years before they dared to write to one another again.

It had been going on twenty now, though, and Aziraphale was growing concerned.

This concern only grew when others demons began to surface. In the past demons tended to ooze up through the cracks in times of great suffering, looking to ply their trade while the human spirit was weak. Crowley was usually very good at corralling these incursions. He’d hiss and spit and stomp around until his head office recalled those intruding on his Satan given territory.

Those that wouldn’t go quietly were swiftly dealt with by the only angel stationed on earth.

Now, it should be noted that Aziraphale, despite not having his flaming sword, was still quite capable of wholly smiting an imp or lesser demon with nothing but the power of his Being. It was nasty work that he preferred not to do...yet he was finding he was forced to with increasing frequency. 

It was becoming alarming. 

Aziraphalefinally risked sending off a letter after one such incident where he found an ugly creature feasting on the despair of those sent to a home for unwed mothers. The whole affair left such a bad taste in his mouth that he simply had to rant at someone.

“Crowley,

I thought this Arrangement meant we would help each other, yet it had been years with no word. I must say, it is becoming quite bothersome. I’ve had to expose my essence to the hordes of hell much more than I would like, lately. It takes away from my guidance, miracles, and blessings. 

If you are having some trouble that is preventing you from keeping contact, it would be courteous of you to let me know.

Mind how you go.

~A.”

He waited.

No response came. A letter of that sort of tone would usually light a fire under his favorite demon’s finely shaped behind, resulting in a letter back in less than a day if not a physical appearance. Except, this time, no such letter was forthcoming.

His next one was more...well.

“Crowley,

My dear, please. You simply must reply soon. I am beginning to become ill with worry. Are you safe? Has the terrible state of things sent you spiraling into one of your moods? If that is the case and you feel ashamed, I beg you don’t. You need to only confess your pains and I shall come to you, no questions asked. 

Mind how you go, my dear.

~A.”

Nothing. Not a peep. 

It was after this pleading letter that Aziraphale’s concern grew to a fever pitch. He decided, perhaps rashly, that he’d go to Crowley’s last known address. The risk was great, what with the unpredictable, forceful demonic incursion happening and the desperation of the humans making them irrational. It would be worth it if he could only confirm that Crowley was faring well. 

Crowley’s home at the time was a small estate that tread carefully between lavish and humble. It had all the flash that Aziraphale had come to expect from the demon, with its grand statues and sculpted hedges, but it also had the unexpected addition of well tended gardens of both flowers and vegetables. Both were being cared for by a peasant family that lived in a cozy out building on the estate.

It was here that he received some rather gut twisting news. 

“I’m sorry, sir, we ain’t seen Master Crowley in a few years.” The middle aged care taker informed him regretfully. “Me wife is keepin’ the home in good order and me childs are helpin’ but the Master ain’t sent word. He was sayin’ he might be gone for a time but I’m not sure he was meanin’ this long.”

Aziraphale smiled tightly, ignored the cold spot that was forming in his chest. “Ah. Well then. How unfortunate. Did...did he happen to say where he was going?”

“Only that it was business, sir. He told us to sell the veg we gathered as we saw fit and save a percentage for him and was off.” The man admitted, frowning. “...ye...ye ain’t here to kick us off the land, are ye? We’ve been farin’ well. The Master said no plague will be touchin’ us if we stay here.”

Aziraphale reassured the man and his family, quickly and easily, before heading off again in a worry soaked daze. Crowley was gone, was not receiving his letters, and had not been home in quite some time. What did that mean?

(He feared he knew what it meant. He’d been recalled to Hell and was now rubber stamping things in a dank office or, worse yet, being tortured over some perceived slight. Perhaps one of these errant demons had discovered their Arrangement and informed their superiors! Perhaps Crowley was screaming out in eternal regret….)

So wrapped up in his fears and concerns was Aziraphale that he did not realize he had guests until he was nearly stumbling over them on his doorstep. 

Aziraphale was not expecting Michael and Uriel. Why would he? Gabriel was the only other archangel he knew to come to earth on a semi-regular basis and, even then, it was only to check in on Aziraphale, scoff at his human lifestyle, and leave with the promise of a glowing performance review that never came. To have two archangels that were known for their battle prowess land on his doorstep after coming from the home of his supposed arch nemesis was alarming, to say the least.

The fact that both female presenting entities were smiling and excited did nothing to ease the tension in his chest. It was so far out of the ordinary that he barely knew how to react. 

When in doubt, play a good host, he supposed. 

“Can I get you some tea?” He asked with a courteous smile as he bowed the two, high ranking angels into his humble home. 

“Wine, if you have it,” Michael all but demanded as she breezed by him. “Temperance is well and good but I can’t help but to feel Gabriel takes it a bit far sometimes.”

“You mustn’t say that, Michael,” Uriel sternly reprimanded. “You know how cantankerous that one gets when angels disagree with him.”

“He won’t lift a finger against me. He knows his place and it is  _ not _ bossing me about.” Michael wrinkled her nose in disgust and took up residence in Aziraphale’s favorite chair as if she had done it a thousand times before. 

Aziraphale wasted no time in summoning a bottle of his best vintage from the cellar. He poured three glasses, doled them out politely, and took a sip. Knowing Michael, he wouldn’t need to wait long for her to lead the conversation. He needed only to be patient. 

“This century has been a rough one for humanity, hasn’t it Aziraphale?” Just as expected, she started in soon as she took a savoring sip of her wine. 

“It has. Famine, plague, war, and so much death.” He sighed mournfully as he, not for the first time, cast his mind over the past few years. It had been heartbreaking, to put it lightly. 

“Yes, Azazel and his three Constructs have been busy, haven’t they?” Michael frowned into her wine disapprovingly. “We’ve had to put Saint Peter on gate duty, there has been so many human souls queueing up for entrance. It is nice to see people turning to the Almighty in such times but...well. It wears after a while, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t say that, either.” Uriel rolled their eyes in exasperation. “All in Her glory, Michael.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I am speaking with Aziraphale. No doubt, as the angel assigned to earth, such dismal matters have a greater impact.” She smiled at him and, for a moment, Aziraphale felt like he hadn’t been forgotten. Better yet, he felt like someone  _ understood.  _

Michael dashed that illusion nearly immediately. 

“Though I suppose the amount of smiting to be done makes up for the loss of human life!” She beamed and chugged the rest of her wine before holding her glass out, beckoning for more. “That’s why we’re here. We saw that you were getting overwhelmed and decided to assist.”

Aziraphale blood ran cold with fear. He somehow managed to keep a tremble from his hands as he refilled his superiors glass.. “Ah. I...I thought I was handling it.”

“You have been,” Uriel reassured in clipped tones. “It is good to see you haven’t forgotten what you were made to do, given the inherent softness of your current station. However, there has never been an incursion like this before. The Adversary has been busy.”

“Quite right!” Blustered Michael, tipping her glass back giddily. “And when the Adversary is busy, WE are busy! Uriel and I have been on earth for sometime now, doing the Good Work. We’ve stayed out of your jurisdiction out of respect but decided it was high time we pop in on you.”

“How kind,” Aziraphale commented faintly with an even fainter smile. “How long have you been-um-smiting, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s hard to say,” hummed Uriel thoughtfully, casting their eyes upwards as they tried to recall. “Mortal concepts of time are so hard to comprehend. It’s admirable how well you’ve adapted, Aziraphale.”

“I do try,” Aziraphale accepted the minor compliment with a bow of his head.

“If I had to guess-” continued Uriel, swishing the untouched wine in their glass idly- “I would say we have been on earth for a few years. The smiting has been good in that time.”

The chill in him increased. A few years...what if...what if…? “Have you had any notable encounters?”

“Not as many as one would hope,” grumbled Michael, pouting. “Many of the ones we’ve faced have barely been a challenge. Some haven’t even required the use of a weapon! They fold under Her word and our divine presence alone.”

“...but there have been good battles, yes?” He pressed, trying to appear as a good former cherub, eager for tales of well won fights. It was an act that came frightfully easy to him.

Michael smiled slyly. “There have been, yes.”   
  


Aziraphale waited for her to continue, holding his breath. 

“Do try to not be jealous or judge us harshly, Aziraphale,” Michael prefaced. His heart dropped like a stone in his chest. “But we had a run in with a certain serpent that you have a long history with.”   
  
“Ah...y-you’ve run into Crowley, have you?” His voice sounded strange in his own ears, strained with its false jovialness.

“Crowley?” Uriel tipped their head slightly in askance. “We thought it was Crawley?”

“Th-the fiend changed it some time ago. That is how most humans refer to him so it has become my habit as well.” He needed to keep himself together. Keep talking, keep smiling. 

“Well, Crowley hardly proved to be a good fight.” Michael scoffed and drank. “The only reason it was notable was because of how fiendishly he fought! He was continuously running yet his skill with working infernal miracles could not be questioned. He kept us at bay for quite a long time, manipulating the environment as he saw fit to give himself the advantage!”   
  
Pride flared in him. He stuffed it down lest it showed. 

“That isn’t surprising though, is it Michael?” Uriel commented, finally taking a tiny sup of their wine. “You know who he was Before.”

Aziraphale perked up. “Who was he Before?” 

“We’re not to say,” Michael grumbled unhappily. “It’s taboo to discuss who demons once were. You know this, Aziraphale. He was a Brother, though, one Uriel and I knew from the Start of All Things. It was...pleasing to see he still had a knack for miracle work.”

He couldn't breathe. All this past tense talk...dread had found its seat inside him. “He has perished, then?”

Uriel and Michael exchanged an indecipherable look that seemed to last centuries rather than seconds. 

“Well,” Uriel hummed and delayed their self by taking another hesitant sip of wine. “I struck him in the tail with my bow, pinning the serpent to the ground.”

“I then descended with my lance, intent on his head, but by that time he had transformed into a human form and I struck his chest instead,” Micahel grinned proudly and drained her glass, tossing it down carelessly. “He screamed out but there was a flare like the burn of magnesium and he escaped before I could take his head from his shoulders. We are unsure if he discorporated or was truly smote from the universe.”

“Or escaped,” Uriel pointed out, earning a glare from Michael. “You say you caught his chest. I think it was the shoulder.”

Michael made a rather sour noise in response but Aziraphale barely heard it. His corporations blood was rushing in his ears, making him dizzy. He could hardly strong to thoughts together as the conversation meandered from one topic to the next, the two archangels apparently not noticing that their gracious host had mentally checked out.

Crowley could be out in the world, suffering under a wound inflicted by a properly blessed weapon.

Crowley could be in Hell, filing paperwork and waiting for a new corporation. Paperwork that could be denied, if some foul tempered Duke so decided to keep him off of earth. 

Crowley could...Crowley could be...could be smited. Erased from the universe. Gone, never to be heard from again.

To his credit, Aziraphale kept his fear at bay until he was sure the archangels had flown far, far from his home. No sooner had their energy faded, however, than he was falling to his knees and choking on his own terror and grief. He prayed in broken words.

“Please...please let him be fine. My Lord, please. You’ve seen, yes? He’s not evil. Unforgivable in your eyes, maybe, but not evil! Please...oh please ...”

No answer came from on high.

He didn’t expect one.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was one that could answer his questions in the absence of the Almighty. They had been an angel, they still were one in fact, but they were unique. They were truly neutral, seeing human, angel, and demon as all the same. They were powerful beyond comprehension, almost as omnipresent as the Lord.

Aziraphale would know no peace until Crowley’s fate was revealed to him. His chest felt like something had been carved from it. He did not know what the meant, exactly, but he knew that he needed to remedy it before he went mad with not knowing. 

He followed the clip clop of horses hooves to a shack where a family was riddled with plague, where a young man was breathing his last. The horse had not rider by the time he caught up and stood pale, empty eyed, and still as the grave as life expired in the shack.

Then He appeared. 

“Um, pardon me.” Aziraphale hardly recognized his own voice for how it wavered and trembled in fear. 

Azrael, Death, the Reaper. All of these names belonged to one, unknowable being. He turned and looked at him from within the void of his cloak. 

Aziraphale had come this far so he pushed on through his growing unease. “I shan’t keep you long. I just have a question, if you will?”

Death seemed to tilt his head to the side, as if confused by being so boldly approached. 

“R-right.” He swallowed, dredged up more courage. “It’s just that, I was wondering if you might be able to tell me if Michael and Uriel succeeded in the smiting of the demon Crowley. Or Crawley, as he has been known. You know. The Serpent of Eden. I’d...I’d very much like to know if I n-n-need to worry about him any longer. You know. He’s been my...my...my enemy for a long time.”

Death straightened and mounted their pale horse. 

“Please!” Aziraphale begged, stepping forward desperately. “I simply must know!”

There was a pause as Death took the reigns of his horse in both hands. 

Then.

**I HAVE NEITHER COLLECTED NOR UNDONE ANY SERPENTS.**

Relief washed over Aziraphale. “Oh! Oh, that’s-”

**YOU ARE BOLD.**

Aziraphale flushed. “Ah...well…”

**DO NOT MAKE THIS A HABIT.**

“I certainly will not,” he promised, bowing his head. “Thank you for taking your time to speak with me.”

Death lingered, gazing at him. 

**SCOTLAND.**

“Pardon?”

**SCOTLAND. I HAVE COLLECTED NO SERPENT BUT I MAY YET. I MAY COLLECT FROM SCOTLAND, IF THE TIME COMES.**

Aziraphale paled as the realization hit him. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

His words found purchase in merely air. 

Death had gone.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The journey was quick and dirty. No human methods of travel this time. He waited for nightfall and took to the skies under his own power. 

It wasn’t a long journey when one could fly. Chilly, yes, but not long. He didn’t have time to waste, after all.

He swept over the land, searching for lingering energy. He wasn’t as attuned with Crowley’s energy as the demon was to his. Aziraphale simply had never made a habit of tracking Crowley down using this method. If they wanted to meet a letter was sent and a time set up. The fact that Crowley always seemed to show up when he needed him was something that Aziraphale never looked too closely at. 

(He knew what he would find if he started to look, to ask questions.)

It was nearing dawn and he feared having to wait a whole other day to continue his search when he felt it. A small blip. A miracle being performed. It was weak, lacklustre, and he would have missed if he hadn’t been on high alert but it was there. 

He flew towards it as if it were a beacon in the night.

The place he found, deep in a mire, was not a house nor a shack nor a hovel. It was a mound made of earth and moss. The only sign it was inhabited being the curl of woodsmoke that curled its way into the predawn light like a ghostly snake. 

As he landed and hid his wings away a girl of about twelve or thirteen slipped from its hidden doorway and darted nearly directly into him. She looked up at him with wide, watery eyes that nearly eclipsed her gaunt face and hugged the burlap bag full of food she carried closer to herself. Indeed, she was so thin and frail that Aziraphale felt sure he could wrap his fingers around her wrists twice over if he so desired. 

The girl glance back at the mound, steeled herself, then looked up at him. “It’s nae a monster.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “I know.”

Her brow furrowed. “Ye’ll nae hurt ‘em?”

“I won’t. Never.”

He was peered at critically. “Ye promise? It unspoilt our food, ye see. Healed Molly’s youngun too. Yeh cannae hurt it!”

“I vow I will not,” Aziraphale bowed his head humbly. “I’m in need of aid as well. I’ve this terrible pain in me that only that one can cure.”

The girl nodded approvingly. “Alright. Jus’ don’t be tellin’ the priest! He’s threatened a burnin’!”

“I wouldn’t dream it.” A claudestein blessing was placed on the young girl, protecting her from illness and misfortune. It was the least Aziraphale could do in the face of such fierce protection of his demon. “Be well, dear.”

The girl ran as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. Aziraphale watched until he could see her no longer, delaying as he centered himself. 

Then he approached, throwing open the door lest Crowley did not.

He was met by a startled demon looking at him from the fire side with bright, all yellow eyes. The mound was sticky with humid heat yet Crowley shivered, a thin sheen of sweat glanzing the entirety of his lithe body. Scales lined him from head to toe, his hair was braided but frayed, and he looked somewhere between feral and terrified. 

Then he relaxed. “Aziraphale….” He paused, stood with a groan, clutching his leg and shoulder, then smiled with a mouth full of fangs. “Sssorry I haven’t written. Figured it wasn’t a good idea.”

“Did you?” Aziraphale breathed, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. 

“Mmmyeh. Ran into some angels. Figured it wouldn’t be...advisable to contact you.” He mumbled, rubbing at his injured shoulder. “Didn’t know if...if they were hanging around you or whatever and wasn’t in any shape to check-”

Crowley never got to continue his babbling justifications. His suddenly found his arms quite occupied as they were full of angel. “You’re forgiven. Don’t worry. Just...goodness. I thought-! Michael and Uriel were so  _ proud _ of themselves and... _ and I thought-!!” _

Crowley was stiff in his arms for a moment...then he was holding him back, arms tightly wound about his hips. “See? They did come. It’s good I didn’t reach out.”

“They came a few days ago, dear! I could have been here sooner!”

“Now, there was no need to risk-”

“You’re hurt! There was plenty of need!”

“I’ve gotten it patched up. Learned a few tricks since the last time I got myself skewered. You remember that? Constantinople-”

“I was worried sick!”

This earned him a pause. “...you were?”

“What kind of question is that?” He pulled back to look at the demon fiercely, with suspiciously wet eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Something bright and shiny had lit up in Crowley’s eyes, unable to be hidden. “Dunno.”

“Oh you daft, precious-” Aziraphale collapsed into him again, holding tighter. “...don’t you know what you mean to me? You’re my dearest-” he stopped, the word needed stuck on his tongue-  _ “friend.” _

There was silence for a moment as Crowley’s breathing stuttered. “...you’re mine, as well. It’s why I didn’t go. Couldn’t risk losing my... _ friend.” _

Aziraphale nodded into his shoulder, ignoring how silly their use of the word friend was becoming. It was obvious what they wanted to say but also clearer than ever that they absolutely should _ not.  _

That did not stop Aziraphale from placing a lingering kiss to a scaled cheek. The demon in his arms shuddered, a whimper in catching in his throat. The angel dutifully ignored it. “Now, dearest, you must let me heal you up. Your servant family have been quite worried about you.”

He pulled away to find ovular pupils blown as wide as they were able. “Ngh...ngk..yeh?” A forked tongue darted over dry lips. “D-didn’t wanna go back looking like thisss. Haven’t been able to-to push it all down sssince-”

“Don’t fret.” Aziraphale laid a warm hand to the side of friends face, gasping slightly as Crowley let his eyes slip close and nuzzled into his palm. Oh, his beautiful demon….

“I’m here here with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days I'm going to have to whump Aziraphale.


	9. Chapter 9

The thing between them, the thing that they know the name of but dare not speak aloud, took a life of its own. It breathed, needed, and fought for survival like any proper creature, overcoming spats and fights that threatened to destroy it. 

It was a cursed, blessed, mixed up thing that they nursed without ever fully intending to via pen and paper.

Its blood was black. Its blood was ink. Its blood reconnected them through trial and tribulation. 

It had a name, Crowley knew it, and he refused to say it out loud or commit it to paper using its ichor.

….fuck. He was waxing poetic again when he should have been writing Aziraphale back. The fuck was he on about, anyways? This thing between them didn’t need a bloody personification!

He banished the thought and squinted down at the lamp lit, mostly blank sheet of paper laid out before him. Aziraphale’s name was scrawled at the top, smooth and lacking any sign of the tremble that plagued his hands at the Beginning. 

Except it seemed wrong to start with just his name.

His mind, in the face of writer's block, wandered back to black ink beasts. More specifically, this time he thought of when he realized this creature was untameable and here to stay.

It had been conceived at a festival, in the face of temptation.

(Many a creature were conceived if one gave into the right temptations, Crowley had found.)

It took its first breaths in a mire, in an earthen hunt, after a relieved embrace. After a rather chaste kiss on a scaled cheek. That kiss had burned him like holy water yet left it no mark, only the heat lingered. Even now Crowley could still feel its echo. 

He had been nursed back to something resembling human, angelic wounds taken away by angelic hands. There had been other kisses, some to his forehead, others to eyelids. Many, many were laid to his cheeks. Some were given while the angel believed he dozed, whispered over his cheek bones as thick, warm fingers carded his hair. 

In the centuries that followed, Crowley had spent more time than he cared to admit to himself trying to regain the freely given affection of that time. Yet, after they had parted ways, it was never mentioned again. They would meet to discuss the Arrangement and flip to decide who did what, they’d have a meal, drink, and go their separate ways again. Strictly business. 

The letters were warmer. Usually they exchanged stories or notable events they were witness to and lament the other not being there to see as well. Other times they would vent about the insufferable bureaucracy and latest bits of silly gossip to come out of their respective head offices. Then other times the letters were more morose, a longing that was never explicitly stated lending a double meaning to even the most innocuous of imaginings and philosophical questions. 

Then there was this letter. It had been received days ago, no doubt it was sent as soon as Aziraphale returned from Edinburgh. Crowley had opened it expecting the usual type of report that they would give each other after the Arrangement came into play, as well as a healthy amount of complaining from the angel regarding the nastiness of riding a horse or how the accommodations hadn’t been up to snuff.

Except...this letter...this letter was something new. 

“Dearest,”

(That opening alone was new. It stopped his performative heart in his chest for a moment before it began to flutter in a very undemonic way.)

“When you said you would make sure people would come to see Hamlet, I thought you intended to get a few new warm bodies into the seats or, perhaps, ensure a person in high society saw. I certainly did not expect to return to find show after show sold out to the point of standing room only!

You shall have to forgive me but I began to enquire around the city about your methods. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you canvassed nearly every pub, social house, and elite club. So many spoke of the remarkable, red headed theater enthusiast and his love of Hamlet that I barely believed you were the one solely responsible.

You outdid yourself, my dear. From the bottom of my heart, I am thankful. 

Yet, I find myself wondering why you went to such extraordinary lengths. I know you to be a demon of few half measures when he puts his mind to it but this was a level of commitment rarely seen no matter what tier of the universe one belongs to. Again, I am extremely grateful, I am not criticizing for there is nothing I can criticize. 

I just wonder why.

Mind how you go, dearest.

~A.”

How the fuck was Crowley to begin answering that? He truly thought the answer was obvious yet Aziraphale was acting like he didn’t know!

...did he not know? 

No. That was impossible. They both knew.

Right?

He groaned in frustration, replaying thousands of years of interactions with the angel for an answer. Perhaps Aziraphale truly thought his was a friendship. It was! There was no doubt that calling them enemies was a farce, that they were more friendly than hostile. Except, after that time when Michael very nearly ended him, he felt certain there was...more happening. 

One didn’t pepper kisses over even their closest friends sleeping face. 

Maybe Aziraphale didn’t know that. It seemed absurd but the angel himself was often silly in ways that both infuriated and delighted Crowley. He was clever, witty, and little bit wicked when the mood struck him...but he also missed things that Crowley thought to be common sense.

Wonderful, terrible, beautiful bastard. 

That was how he should start his letter. Followed by a simple question: “Don’t you know why?” 

He sat down to write just that when there came a tapping at his rooms door. Ah, the boy he sent off to purchase him a few bottles of wine had finally returned. Not a moment too soon, either. He found that he did his best, most honest letter writing while sloshed. 

He slid from his seat, intent on giving the boy a bit of lip for making him wait so long, and threw open the door with a snarl-

There stood the angel, fidgeting nervously, flushed high in his round cheeks. He smiled uncertainly at him, undoing Crowley with a flash of teeth.

For a moment Crowley could only stand there, mouth partially agape, hand clutching the door knob. Aziraphale was here. They hadn’t set up a meeting, there was no emergency that Crowley knew of, no assignment that would warrant the Arrangement. 

Yet there Aziraphale was? With a bottle of wine in either hand, to boot. This was what Crowley’s frazzled brain latched on to.

“Sss’my wine,” he managed and very nearly cringed at the sound of his own voice as it not only hissed but pitched a few octaves higher than normal. He cleared his throat, intent on saying something more sauve and clever. “How?”

Oh, good job. Really. Fuck.

Aziraphale flustered a bit, a hint of a red flush reising up the ridiculous ruff around his neck. “Oh! Well, I figured I’d drop in seeing as I hadn’t heard from you and that’s unusual, you’re usually pretty prompt in writing me, and I just wanted to check in because the last time you stopped writing you were bad off but I was coming and there was a boy with wine and I just knew it was for you because, really, who else would it be? So, I decided to relieve the boy and make the delivery myself and I hope that I’m not interrupting-”   
  
“You’re not!” Crowley cut off the angelic babbling before Aziraphale could carry on. “I mean, was just about to write you. Had the ink out and everything.”

“Ah! Jolly good!” Aziraphale beamed, flush rising higher. He held out the two bottle before him and Crowley took them with stunned, stiff hands. For a moment they stood there, on opposite sides of the threshold, staring dumbly at each other.

Then Aziraphale’s eyes darted to the room behind Crowley and back to his face.

The wheels in the demons mind began turning again. He stepped aside with a flourish and bow. “Join me for a drink?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale smiled politely, as if he hadn;t just hinted at what he wanted with his eyes, and stepped inside. “Well, if you insist, my dear.”

“I do,” Crowley murmured, trying to put himself together in the space between admitting the angel and shutting the door. “I really do.” 

Wine was poured, drank, and repoured. They spoke, trading stories and good natured barbs. At one point Aziraphale told a rather bawdy, unangelic joke that sent Crowley into fits. At another Aziraphale started ridiculing Crowley’s choice of facial hair and the demon declared he’d get rid of it if only Aziraphale got rid of that stupid ruffle around his neck. 

The night was dark, they were sitting on the floor and laughing like loons. Crowley was freshly shaven and Aziraphale was ruffle free. 

Then there was silence, warm and comfortable. Crowley could feel his alcohol soaked smile softening to something sappy and far too revealing as he gazed at the angel across from him. 

(Reveal what, exactly? Didn’t Aziraphale know? Did he know?)

Aziraphale was watching him with hazy eyes, a smile that mirrored his own etched on his pretty face. Crowley found himself laughing and looking away, self conscious despite himself. “Somethin’ on my face?”

The angel laughed gently, shifted closer until they were sitting hip to hip at each others sides. “ _ You _ were staring at  _ me _ , dear.”

“Naaaw,” he denied even as he renewed his watching from this new, closer angle, his waiting.

Waiting for what, he didn’t know.

(He knew. Did Aziraphale?)

“Tsk,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning closer. “Liar. You’re still doing it.”

Crowley felt as if he were being pulled on a string towards him. “So are you, angel.”

“Am I?” A whisper now, barely heard above the clamor in Crowley’s chest. The heat of his breath ghosted over his lips. “I seem unable to look away. Perhaps I should close my eyes.”   
  
True to his word, he did just that. Blue was stolen away, replaced only by lid and lash, a face that was so very, very close….

“Yeh. Yeh, me too.” He allowed his eyes to close, to blot out the angelic face. What he thought was happening wouldn’t. Someone would knock on the door or there would be an angry scream out in the street as the butcher’s wife called him out again or the hordes of hell would reach up through the floorboards and pull him all the way down to the Ninth Circle for daring to reach so high.

Except...none of that happened.

The first brush of lips to lips was less hesitant than it was exploratory. Soft and warm, moist and sweet in a way that most kisses Crowley had taken part in were not. Those other, mortal kisses were fleeting things, a means to an end. This...this was new. It left him wanting. 

Somewhere far away a familiar voice breathed “Oh!” as if the same revelation was taking them.

The second kiss was firmer, longer, demanding. Lips moved against lips, memorizing the shape and fine details. He was making a noise, something whimpery and embarrassing, that he tried to fight back until the angel at his mouth echoed the sound with one of his own. 

A dam broke. 

Hands were in his hair, knocking locks from their careful placement and sending them wherever they pleased. He couldn’t be arsed with it, not when his own hands were finally (Finally!) in short, white blond curls, mussing them just like he had always imagined doing. Lips parted further and he took advantage of the opening soon as it was offered, plunging inside, intent on memorizing every inch, every taste, just...just everything. 

A hot, magnificent weight settled in his lap forcing him to angle his face upwards, allowing the angel to give as well as he took. Crowley didn’t bother trying to suppress the moan that rumbled forth, nor did he waste time in pulling his hands from angelic curls to run down a plush back to a plump ass and squeeze-

Those wonderful lips were torn from his own with a gasp. 

“Oh!” He dared not open his eyes, remove his hand, make a move of any kind. “...Crowley….”

The hands clutching his hair loosened slipped free. A moment later, one of them was gripping his wrist firmly, pulling it away from where it had settled. He whined- _ actually whined! _ -at the loss.

“I’m sorry, my dear.” 

He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move a muscle or even breathe. 

“My dear, please.” Oh, the pleading, guilt ridden tone in his angels voice was too much to bear. He couldn’t open himself back up to reality, not when his angel sounded so miserable.

(Hadn’t Aziraphale kissed first? Crowley was certain he hadn’t...but...but maybe he had? Maybe he’d closed the gap without meaning to and Aziraphale just went along with it. Maybe the pain that was beginning to bubble up inside his chest was of his own making.)

“...I...I shouldn’t have allowed-oh, Crowley. I wish-! If only things were-!” All incomplete thoughts were abandoned in pained anguish. “Oh, darling, please. Won’t you look at me?”

He couldn’t deny him any longer, not when he sounded like that. 

He looked. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were wet with barely contained tears, his cheeks red and lips glossy pink. Devastation and conflict were etched in every line of his face.

(He should have opened his eyes while it was good. Then he’d have the memory of Aziraphale unfettered, Aziraphale forgetting himself, Aziraphale climbing into his lap and giving over. Now all he had was this tortured expression to keep him up at night.)

Despite himself, Crowley reached up and cupped one of the soft cheeks tenderly. “Shhh,” he hushed, even as he felt himself tearing in two. “It’s alright. Demon, right? Temptation is the name of the game.”

Something steely and angry entered the angels eyes, forcing the tears to finally spill over. “Crowley, you most certainly did not-!”

“Aziraphale.” He said it so sternly that the other man shaped being had no choice but to stop before he truly got started. “I tempted you. It was nothing else, alright? A temptation that you passed. Bravo.”

“...bravo….” Aziraphale breathed, anger melting from him to be replaced by doubt. He turned his face in Crowley’s palm, brushed his lips there before Crowley pulled his hand away, balling it into a fist at his side. Aziraphale watched with dull, far away eyes. “...I should go.”

“You should go,” Crowley agreed with a strangled voice.

Aziraphale didn’t move from his spot on his lap, his eyes still on Crowley’s trembling, white knuckled fist. “...are you still my friend?”

Crowley blinked, laughed a painful laugh. “As if I wouldn’t be.”

A faint smile pulled at his angels lips and he nodded, finally rising. “Right. Okay. I’ll hear from you, then?” 

“Uhm...yeh. You will. Why wouldn’t you?” He hated that he even asked, really. Did that mean the Aziraphale was wondering if he shouldn’t contact him anymore?

(Please. Please Satan. Please God. Please Somebody! Don’t let that be the case!)

“I...I’m not sure.” Aziraphale sighed heavily, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Well then, I’m off.” 

Crowley nodded stiffly. “Mind how you go, angel.”

Said angel paused, hand on the door knob, not looking back. “Oh, Crowley, my dear. Mind how you go as well.”   
  
Then he was gone with the soft click of the door closing behind him. 

Crowley was not called ‘Dearest’ in a letter for a long time afterwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit. Dey kissed.


	10. Chapter 10

The Bastille reeked of blood and human anguish. He lost his new, custom tailored clothing there as well, swapped it do that it would become a wicked man's funerary dressing. All of that unpleasantness, yet he could only recall one thing with frightening, hot blooded clarity. 

Aziraphale had lusted as he never had before. Actually, he had probably thrown a few of the other deadly sins in for good measure. He had coveted as well, he was fairly certain. He certainly had been envious of how bloody dashing Crowley had been. 

...and maybe he had felt an unholy amount of pride for having his little charade go off without a hitch.

(Lying isn't technically a sin. Crowley didn’t need to know that Aziraphale had made himself a rather obvious target. Oh, coming so close to discorporation hadn’t been in the cards but, in retrospect, the prison aspect of the rescue had lended a certain amount thrill to the whole affair!)

If Crowley suspected, and Aziraphale figured he must have, he did not say so. He played his role beautifully, gladly even, and maintained it even as they walked away from the blood shed. They seemed to be the only ones, in fact. The humans were finding this erasure of the upper crust far too entertaining. 

“You know,” Aziraphale began as he watched a mother and her young children hurry towards the guillotine square, “as a Principality I feel I should be doing something to curb this.”

A slender, red eyebrow arched above smoke dark glasses. “What would you do?”

The angel hummed, cast his eyes skyward in thought. “Haven’t the foggiest. Perhaps remind them that every ounce of blood spilled is more on their souls?”

“They won’t care. You could go up to them as you really are, all flame and goggling eyeballs, and they’d keep on chopping.” The demon spun on his heel, walking backwards through the streets so that he might look at Aziraphale directly. “Revolutions have their fall out, angel.”

“I suppose you would know,” he sighed in response, frowning. 

A shadow flickered over Crowley’s face. His smile tightened. “I suppose you would as well.”

“Touche.” 

Aziraphale allowed Crowley to take the lead, letting them lapse into a comfortable silence as they wound through the streets. It gave him time to decompress, to let go of a gnawing anxiety that he hadn’t realized had settled inside him. Truthfully, a part of him he did not wish to acknowledge had been worried his machinations would go south. 

He had wondered if, maybe, Crowley wouldn’t come. 

They had seen each other on a few, brief occasions since That Night. Always for business, always with superficial conversation. Even the tone of their letters had cooled to the point where once there had been pages of stories and introspection there was now barely a page each time they wrote. The last time Aziraphale had informed Crowley that he intended to settle in London and open a bookshop. 

Crowley’s response had been...underwhelming. 

“Aziraphale,

You do know you shall need to sell your books, yes? 

Do as you please. Make yourself a home wherever you feel most comfortable. I don’t see why you need to bother with bookshop front. Just miracle yourself a permanent lease and enjoy your collection. 

Send me the address when you’re all set, no matter which way you go with it. I’ll check in.

Mind how you go.

-C.”

It was such a brief, mild response that it had irritated Aziraphale though he was hard pressed to explain  _ why. _

Not for the first time, Aziraphale regretted That Night for all the wrong reasons. He should have regretted it because he had fallen to temptation, no matter how briefly, and allowed his human corporation to take the reigns. He also supposed he should have regretted falling so completely that he straddled Crowley’s hips and, for a moment, had delighted in the feel of demonic hands running over his body while a hot mouth drew the very breath from his lungs. 

He regretted none of that. They were memories that crept into his mind in the dead of night when all was quiet. He would spend more time than was decent ruminating on the taste of Crowley’s mouth, the fork of his tongue, the silkyness of his red locks between his fingers, the scalding feel of Crowley’s hands on his behind. 

No. He regretted only two things: that it seemed to have changed the tone of their friendship and that Aziraphale had been too much of a coward to finish what he had started.

(He had started it, no matter what Crowley claimed about temptation. Aziraphale distinctly remembered closing the gap so that he might finally know the heat of Crowley’s lips against his own. He wanted to feel the Unspoken Thing. No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? He had wanted  _ Crowley  _ to feel the Unspoken Thing, to know that Aziraphale knew why the demon did the things he did for him. He cocked it all up rather magnificently, in the end.)

This time he would get it right. He’d bow and kiss the back of Crowley’s hand, thank him for the rescue, ask if he was staying anywhere in the city and suggest the share a bottle of red. Then, after just one glass as to be sure they were both thinking clearly, he’d kiss him sweetly. He wouldn’t progress things, as this thing between them needed to be chaste as possible, but the intent would be clear. The want on display.

Crowley would know that Aziraphale wasn’t tempted, not That Night nor this one. That he wanted because Crowley was _ Crowley _ but couldn’t have him for exactly the same reasons.

Except crepes had been eaten and the conversation had lulled and Aziraphale found himself at loose ends. Crowley was keeping a distance at all times, sitting across the table instead of at his side or walking with nearly a foot between them. His normally active hands were folded neatly behind his back when he walked, giving no chance for them to ‘accidentally’ brush together. 

He hadn’t even had a drink at lunch.

The sun was setting and the city was still in smoking chaos. They walked together as they always did, except without as much conversation. The plan, which had started so marvellously, was in shambles and Aziraphale could not figure out how to get it back on track. 

Crowley, whether he intended to or not, threw him a life line. “Are you headed back across the Channel?”

“O-oh!” Aziraphale stammered. This was it! He could salvage everything if only he could get his wits about him! “Well, I was thinking of waiting until morning.”

Crowley looked at him queerly, lines etching around his mouth. “Everyone will see your wings, then.”

“I was going to take a boat, dear boy!” Aziraphale replied huffily. God help him, it was hard to fake needing to wait to travel when one had wings. 

“You hate boats.” Crowley was right, of course. 

“I dislike most forms of human transportation,” Aziraphale countered smartly. “Look, if Gabriel has been on me about frivolous miracles how do you think he’ll feel about me unfurling my wings and taking a jaunt across the Channel?”

The demon appeared entirely unconvinced and, worryingly for Aziraphale, hesitant. 

A cold weight settled in him. He wasn’t wanted here. Crowley was deliberately trying to keep him at arm’s length. He’d rescued him because they were friends but...but the Unspoken Thing was gone, wasn’t it? He’d pulled back at a crucial moment, had made no attempts to explain himself, and now Crowley had let it go to save himself any future pain.

It was the smart thing to do, really.

That did not stop Aziraphale from feeling any less devastated. What a fool he’d been! He’d lost one of the most glorious things in all creation before he even, truly, began to understand its depth! 

His throat was tight. “Though, I don’t wish to impose on you any further. N-no doubt you have-uhm-plenty of temptations to get on with in this climate.”

Something flickered in Crowley’s expression but it was gone before Aziraphale could even fathom it. “Mhm. Yeh. I suppose I do.” His voice was so damn passive it did nothing to ease his nerves.

So he wasn’t even going to insist he stay.

(He’d ruined it.  _ He’d ruined it! _ )

Aziraphale nodded, smiled tightly. “It was a pleasure seeing you again. Thank you for the rescue.” Briefly the planned imagining of him bowing and kissing those thin knuckles flashed in his mind. His heart clenched painfully. “...I’ll be off.”

He turned sharply on his heel, a miracle in hand. Gabriel could reprimand him if he so desired, Aziraphale couldn’t stay a moment longer. 

As the miracle took effect and he was whisked away for French shores he was nearly certain he heard a familiar phrase thrown to his back in a tremulous, meaningful tone.

_ “Mind how you go, angel.” _

  
  


\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  
  


The letters grew shorter and further apart. Aziraphale couldn’t bear opening up when Crowley was so obviously just being polite, so he kept his stories and anecdotes to a minimum, put little of his own personal feelings in them. If Crowley could banish the Unspoken Thing than, surely, Aziraphale would be able to as well!

It worked, a little. The feeling dulled, as did the desire. It left him feeling cold. Abandoned not only by Heaven but by his best friend. Perhaps they had never been friends? Oh, that was a dismal thought. Maybe the warmth and pleasantness had all been rather blown out of proportion in Aziraphale’s wishful mind. Perhaps Crowley saw it merely as an opportunity to have a good working relationship with an angel. Perhaps the kisses and longing looks were merely basic lust. As a demon he may have presented it as something else entirely without meaning to. It wasn’t like Aziraphale would have had the experience to correctly interpret things. 

Aziraphale could have imagined the Unspoken Thing. 

(He didn’t think he did. He _ hoped _ he hadn’t.)

A decade passed, the world changed. The Arrangement lapsed, as did their letters. Aziraphale had sent the last one and received no reply. For a time he worried but, if he stretched himself, he could feel the lingering bits of Crowley’s demonic energy all throughout Europe. This did enough to assuage his fears.

(He did fear. Feared Crowley going back to hell. Feared being left alone. Feared harm coming to him and Aziraphale never knowing until it was far too late. He feared so often that it became second nature, like breathing.)

That didn’t stop him from dropping everything when, one Hallows Eve, he felt a strong pull of infernal energy from the Upper West Side. The shop was set to open some point in the upcoming New Year and he was in the midst of constructing shelves to his exacting specifications when he felt the energy smolder to life. 

Crowley was back. _ Finally.  _ What was more, he seemed to be beckoning to him, given how insistent and flamboyant his energy was. Even if the Unspoken Thing had died or never existed, Aziraphale still cared for him deeply as a friend and wanted to see him. 

He followed the burning spark out into the late Autumn night, caring not a stitch for the creeping winter chill in the air. He followed the trail laid out for him doggedly, a spring in his step. 

Until the energy changed. No, not changed. It was still infernal, still very close to Crowley’s own but...there was something there that was never present in Crowley. A kind of all consuming darkness that weighed heavily even on his angelic being. 

_ Evil. _ There was true evil waiting for him at the end of this path. Not the evil of those weak imps that had flooded upwards during the fourteenth century. Not the evil one often found in corrupt men. This was black, as if its owner had based their whole personality around the fact they would see no repercussions from their actions. 

Aziraphale followed the energy. He wasn’t being pulled, he realized. The creature at the other end simply wanted to be noticed. It had broken upwards and now it was flexing itself. 

Aziraphale would make sure it went back to the pit with its tail between its legs for even thinking of coming to his city. 

(It was worrisome, however, that it had come at all. This demon had power at its disposal, a power that reaching its shadowy tendrils across the whole of London. Aziraphale had no weapon and, for a creature such as this, he wasn’t entirely certain spreading his wings and flooding the world with divine light would do the trick like it had with imps. And what Crowley? Surely he knew of this invasion of his territory. What did it mean?)

Ultimately, he found himself led to a house of ill repute. A brothel. Now, he didn’t consider himself a prude by any measure. One didn’t live with humans from the dawn of known time without becoming rather numb to certain activities. There had been era’s, after all, where he would be just walking down a well beaten path only to stumble on a coupling taking place in broad daylight. He also had very little problem with selling pleasure, as long as everyone involved were clear on the rules and doing it of their own free will.

...he still wasn’t a fan of brothels, however. A lot more than sex tended to happen in these places. There was a nigh nonexistent balance of power and ownership firmly entrenched between these walls. 

It was no wonder a demon was drawn to such a place. 

(Aziraphale had found Crowley in a place like it once. She was female then, a form that always did funny things to Aziraphale’s insides. The former owner had passed away rather unexpectedly of something that looked suspiciously like a poisoning. Crowley had merely smiled slyly when pressed on it, insinuated that she had no idea what Aziraphale was on about, and offered him a drink that Aziraphale gladly accepted, confident that he wouldn’t meet the same fate as the owner.)

The demon he found at the end of the breadcrumb trail was well and truly androgynous, though they had deigned to clothe themselves in crisp, tailored styles of impeccable taste that were typical for men. The humans in the brothel were hanging on the human shaped creature, fawning over them like they were made of all the treasures in the world, looking at them with hazy eyes that indicated that foul play was afoot. 

Aziraphale bristled at the artlessness of it all. When he and Crowley did temptations there was nuance! Intel was gathered and skills plied. This was just hitting the humans over their poor heads with power they couldn’t begin to resist. It was unfair.

It was not very sporting at all.

He marched forward, standing tall, face set in a look of righteous disapproval. Eyes that were wholly pink, like that of an albino rats, were pointed in his direction. The sensual smile that lined the demons face grew tighter, vicious, and they pulled a human woman into their lap as if to shield themselves.

“Well, well, well,” they purred with a voice that was...not entirely unpleasant to hear. It was musical, lilting. A former Choral, perhaps? “It has been sometime since I’ve seen an angel. It’s been an even longer time since I’ve seen one of such  _ sublime _ quality.”

Aziraphale openly rolled his eyes, seeing the flattery for the insincere thing it was. “I don’t doubt it. You seem to be lost, demon. Shall I direct you homeward?” He stamped his foot petulantly to emphasize his point. 

“Offering to walk me home, are you?” The creature smile with perfectly straight, white teeth. “I’m afraid I still have business here. My stable has been running a bit dry, you see, and demons will trade all manner of goodies for a bit of ill gotten affection. Some fresh blood is needed to slake my kins thirst.”

The humans giggled as one, as if they had overheard a rather funny joke instead of casual talk of their damnation. “I offered only to be polite. Get thee hence, beast, or you will know the wrath of the Almighty.”

“I’ve already known it, angel-” this small endearment set him gnashing his teeth, balling his hands into fists- “I think I’ll survive whatever you throw at me.”

There was nothing more for it, then. It was going to be a fight. 

(The Cherubic part of him cheered at the prospect. The rest of him groaned loudly and wished he was anywhere else.) 

With a pull from heaven and a snap of his fingers, he sent the two of them tumbling out into the dark of a miraculously vacant side street. He couldn’t risk the humans, even if Gabriel would have accepted their loss as a write off and a ‘win’ for their side. 

(Aziraphale could hear it now. “They were sinners, Aziraphale! A perfectly acceptable loss!” All said with a great, big, empty smile that left him shuddering in horror.)

His quarry righted themselves quickly. “Rude.”

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Aziraphale replied coolly. 

“Rather think that’s your job,” the demon snarked back, eyeing him up and down. “You really are a pretty thing. Why not call this off? I’ll take one soul instead of a dozen, you can say you saved eleven. How about it?”

“Not even one,” Aziraphale countered, revealing his wings and spreading them in a way that always intimidated imps. “I’ll not bargain.”

The demon tutted disapprovingly. “Oh my. How does Crawley get away with anything under such scrutiny?”

“Perhaps he’s a touch more clever.”

The demon snorted. “I very much doubt that. If he was he’d take on more assignments in carnal temptation, then I wouldn’t have to sully myself by coming up here! He’s provided me no new blood in two centuries now! Lust is literally the easiest sin yet,  _ somehow _ , he’s failing at it!”

Aziraphale was in no position to dissect that information and what it possibly meant. All he knew was that he was suddenly thrilled and angry in equal measure with no outlet for either adrenaline inducing emotion.

Oh. Wait a tick. He _ did _ have an outlet. 

He punched the vile creature in the face and sent it flying back a good few yards. It squealed comically, landing in something wet and unpleasant, before scrambling to its feet.

(The Cherub in him danced a jig of delight. Hell, if he wasn’t so out of sorts he’d have done the same. It had been millenia since he actually hit something! It was easy to forget the relief one briefly felt after a good smack. It wasn’t so easy to forget the shame that followed.)

“Are you alright?” He asked in a carefully measured voice, trying not to appear too proud of himself. The feeling wouldn’t last long, it never did. 

**_“I am going to KILL you!”_ **

“Damn. You can still speak. Here I thought I might’ve broken your jaw.” He hadn’t thought so, not truly. It just seemed like the kind of thing one might say when trying to intimidate another out of further violence. 

The creature wasn’t trying to appear fully human any longer. There were rows of sharp, shark teeth forming in its elongating jaw. A gray mottling appeared where its flesh began to split at its fingers, revealing long, trowel-like claws. In truth, it looked like someone had smashed all the worst parts of bull shark, mole, and sunlight deprived human together. 

Aziraphale cringed. “Oh my. Now, I’m not one to judge based on looks but...you must have a sparkling personality if _ you _ are a master of lust.”

The creature snarled, screeched, and lunged. 

Oh, dear.

He shouldn’t have worn his nice clothing. 

Everything was a blur for a time. Gouging claws found purchase in soft flesh, clothing was ripped asunder, pain was felt, and Aziraphale may have let loose a rather colorful string of Enochian that would have made the Metatron blush. It certainly made the creature screech to hear it. 

Somehow, Aziraphale managed to lose ground at one point. He was bleeding from somewhere and there was a rather alarming ache forming in his lower torso. The world also seemed to be a bit...foggier than usual, dizzying. The demon seemed far too proud of itself and was advancing with deadly intent-

Then there was hiss. “Asssmodeusss, you dare?!” 

Oh. He knew that hiss. 

The demon, Asmodeus, apparently did as well because it snarled at a spot somewhere to Aziraphale’s left. “Dare what? Take care of this angel for you?”

“Thisss isss MY enemy. One I know how to deal with. If thisss angel perissshesss they’ll send another that I will need to relearn. Ussse the head at the top of your shouldersss for once in your miserable exissstence.” 

Ouch. That hurt worse than the mystery wound. It was obvious Crowley was posturing but...still.

(It  _ was _ just posturing, right?)

They were arguing. Jaws were snapped and fangs exposed. It was all becoming a bit much for an angel with an injured corporation to fathom. So he spread his wings and tried to posture as well. 

“I don’t care which of you I fight. I’ll win.” He flared with holy light, silently apologizing to Crowley as the serpent hissed in fright. “Two is much better than one, yes?” 

Asmodeus snarled. “Bring me some new blood, Crawley.”

“Get Beezelbub to give me an assignment requiring that and we’ll talk. Now fuck off and let me deal with thisss messs you’ve made.”

“I’m going to tell them about this.”

“Go ahead. I’ll tell them you came up here, unapproved, and very nearly killed an angel which would have resulted in more angelsss beating down the gates.”

A sullen silence followed. “...we forget this ever happened, then?”

“Forget what happened?” Crowley hissed coyly. 

Someone laughed, there was a flash of intense heat, and then silence.

Well, for a moment. 

“Aziraphale!” No hissing, no fangs or forked tongue. Only yellow eyes peering over dark glasses and thin hands pressing to something that hurt terribly. “Jesus Christ. Bless it all. Fuck!”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, suddenly feeling every eon of his age. 

“As if you weren’t just spouting off dirt in Enochian,” Crowley mumbled distractedly, flooding him with an energy that made him gasp and squirm. “Stay still! I’m not as great a healer as I once was.”

“It’s not bad,” he insisted. “I can hardly feel it.”

“Believe me, that’s not a good thing. You’ve been nearly fuckin’ impaled!” There was a faintness in Crowley’s voice that would have been alarming if Aziraphale was feeling more like himself. Instead he felt floaty, dreamy. “Hey, hey, hey. Concentrate, yeh? Why’d you pick a fight with that one?”   
  
Aziraphale blinked slowly, stupidly. “I thought they were you.”

There was no missing the dark expression that clouded the demons face. “Ah.”

“Not like that. I thought you had returned, followed, then...well...it wasn’t you at the end of the line.” Aziraphale placed a hand over the slender one that was easing the pain from his body, savoring the comforting warmth it left in its wake. “I actually knew before then. I just...could not let some other demon have its way on my watch.”

“Should have left it to me.”

“I am perfectly capable, Crowley.” He stood straighter, ignoring the shooting pain that rocketed up his form. “I’m a Guardian.”

“You’re sensualist, a book collector, and soft as stuffing,” Crowley huffed, though his words held a tender edge. The pain dulled further, as did the coppery scent of blood. “You don’t like fighting.”

“Well, there are exceptions,” he mumbled with a small smile. 

Crowley laughed softly, shaking his head. “Glad I’m not one. That was...well. Asmoedeus won’t forget it any time soon. It was brilliant, really.”

The swell of pride in Aziraphale’s chest was nearly painful.  _ Crowley thought he was brilliant.  _ That, somehow, meant more than any commendation heaven could bestow. 

“All the same,” Crowley continued, unaware of the profound effect his praise was having. “I’d prefer if you didn’t do this again. Not because you can’t handle yourself, you’ve more than proven that. I just-well. You see….”

There it was. The Unspoken Thing, written all over Crowley’s face, bubbling like lava in Aziraphale’s chest as the pain faded. Not imagined. Not dead. Not forgotten.

Just...kept at a distance, for both of their safety. 

The clarity of his revelation was too much for one angel to handle with any sort of grace.

The kiss this time was desperate. Teeth knocked against teeth and one of them groaned in way that spoke of relief. Hands, still tingling with misused infernal energy, framed his face while his own gripped at a velvet lapel, the other tangling in red hair. There was a clatter of glass hitting the ground as Crowley’s lenses were knocked free and soft huff of breath when Aziraphale found himself pushed against the nearest wall. 

_ “Angel, oh angel,” _ was gasped against his lips.

_ “Darling,” _ was sighed back.

Lips strayed across his jaw line. “We shouldn’t. They could be watching. They could come back.”

Aziraphale nodded hastily, craning his neck to give him more room to work with. “We shouldn’t We  _ absolutely  _ shouldn’t.”

More kisses trailed over his offered neck, a brush of fang. “Tell me to stop. I’ll stop. I will.” His lithe body pressed closer between his legs, grinding. They groaned in unison. “ _ fffFuck, _ tell me to stop.”

“I-” Oh, he didn’t want it to stop. His adrenalin was still running high, he was dizzy from his injuries and subsequent, miraculous recovery. Crowley was here, so close, and the Unspoken Thing was alive!

He didn’t want it to stop but a part of him knew it couldn’t go much further.

Perhaps...just a little indulgence wouldn’t hurt, though?

He ground back against the demon, earning a hissing gasp for his effort. “Sssh, sssh. Give me this? Please. Just...like this.”

“Angel…,” was groaned into his neck, fangs worrying the flesh there but never piercing. “What changed? Between then and now?”

“Nothing,” he replied honestly. “Just...what if we never-?”

“I think we are.”

Aziraphale giggled, half delirious. “We are, aren’t we?”

“Kinda, kinda.” Crowley thrust against him, breath ragged as his own. “Just over the clothes. That’s fine, yeh? Won’t- _ ah, shit _ -count.”

“There’s nothing- _ oh, Crowley! _ -in the rules aga-against it.” There probably was but, really, he wasn’t about to stop and check. Ignorance was bliss and all that. 

Their mouths crashed together, hands held to hips, pulling closer and closer as they grew more frantic in their movement, hard pressing against hard. It was a blur of human feeling that Aziraphale could barely keep up with. The night had been quite strange, after all. He’d gone from quietly reading, to fighting, to fff-eh-fornicating in the span of-goodness!-two hours?! 

So strange, so reckless.

(He liked being reckless more than was proper.)

Crowley was beginning to tremble against him, his breath coming in short gasps. “Angel, Angel, bless it all, Angel I’m-” Was panted against his lips before he somehow managed to seize up and stutter jerkily at the same time, his eyes half closed, his mouth drawn into a soundless ‘O’. 

_ Beautiful. _

On that thought, Aziraphale followed him into the abyss, the world whiting out around him as heat and pleasure radiated out through every nerve. He was moaning a bit too loudly for a semi-public dalliance but he couldn’t find it in him to care, not when it was Crowley’s name that was tripping off his tongue. 

The world came back slowly. Crowley’s sharp chin was digging into his clavicle, his face buried in Aziraphale’s neck. The air was bitter cold, reminding him winter was approaching and rapidly cooling the mess he’d made in his trousers. With a snap of his fingers angel and demon both were cleaned up, all evidence vanished into the ether. 

(He’d always know it was there, though. Underneath. Nothing was ever truly gone, was it?) 

Crowley spoke first. “...you almost died.”

“I would have come back.”

“I know but….”

He understood completely as he had the same worries when Crowley was hurt. It would have been hard. He could have been denied a new body, a new angel could have taken his place, his new corporation could have been unrecognizable from this one, it could have taken centuries to return. So many things could have gone wrong. 

He hugged him tighter. “...we can’t do this again, my dear,” he murmured, the words choking him. “This was...oh, Crowley this-!”

“I know. I know.” The demon didn’t pull his face from where it was nestled, not even Aziraphale felt the wet heat collecting there, the soft sniffle. “I know. It’s a one off thing. A ‘just in case’ to say we did if anything happens, right? Makes sense. It’s all good.”

It didn’t feel all good. This wasn’t what Aziraphale had imagined in his midnight hours nor was it the fantasy that spurred him to France all those years ago. Those had been joyous and slow, more skin and tender words. 

This would need to do. This would have to be what kept the Unspoken Thing alive a bit longer. 

“...thank you for coming tonight, my dear.” Crowley snorted laughter into his neck. Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle, even as he rolled his eyes. “Really, now. You’re as old as time yet you laugh at simple entendre?” 

“Gotta laugh about something,” the demon murmured, audibly pulling himself together. Aziraphale could feel the inevitable parting of ways lingering in the air. It would be any minute now.

“Quite,” he whispered, allowing himself a last stroke of his hand down the length of Crowley’s back before dropping his arms to his sides. 

Crowley pulled away, taking a full step backwards and stooping for his glasses. Once the lenses were in place he appraised Aziraphale nonchalantly, as if they weren’t just rutting against each other moments ago. “If-um-if it hurts you’ll write me, yeh? I’ll come to you.” 

Aziraphale smiled despite the pain in him, the longing to pull him back into his arms. His sweet demon…. “I’ll write to you even if it doesn’t.”

Crowley smiled faintly. “Good...good.” Another step back. “You can get back to your flat on your own? You won’t go out looking for trouble?”

“I think that was quite enough excitement for one night, yes.” He needed the time to decompress, to go over the baffling order of events that led to.. _.to this _ . 

A nod. A pause. “Angel...Aziraphale....I-” He stopped, took a deep breath. “...Mind how you go, angel.”

(Such a simple phrase, said with such deep feeling. Four words in place of three.)

Aziraphale swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Mind how you go, dear.” 

Hesitation hung in the air, neither moving to leave, until Crowley took a step. Then another. He slouched his way into the shadows one jerky step at a time.

The wind picked up, bringing with it more bitter cold.

Winter was here.

The Unspoken Thing shivered along with Aziraphale. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. We all know by now that I have a thing for Aziraphale fighting shit. I'm not ashamed.


	11. Chapter 11

Crowley once met a woman who hated the word ‘moist’. Her whole frame would curl up on itself and she’d retch theatrically while Crowley watched with wry amusement. Cursing her, in the end, had been easy. She never knew a dry armpit or warm socks for the rest of her miserable existence. 

How ridiculous, to hate a word.

“Fraternizing!” He bellowed, not for the first time that evening, as he pitched his own crystal decanter at his homes wall. It exploded in a shower of shards, tinkling loudly, nigh musical in its destruction. 

Fraternizing. Never had he hated anything as quickly and as completely as that word. It echoed in his brain, gouging out a place for itself in his frontal lobe. It was a rod more wounding than any blessed blade. 

Was it fraternizing when they drank together? Was it fraternizing when they lay under the stars in peaceful silence? Was it fraternizing when they hid away in the dingy back booths of noisy pubs and sang songs long forgotten by the humans around them? Was it fraternizing when they’d catch each others eyes and smile knowingly at each other?

...was fraternizing when Aziraphale pulled him close that one night and...and….

He needed more booze. 

Rum was retrieved and he threw himself into the plush velvet of his desk chair. He drank straight from the bottle, staring blankly at the drawn curtains sheltering him from the outside world, and contemplated heartbreak.

That’s what he was, after all. Drunk and heartbroken. 

Who knew angels could be so cruel? 

(Crowley knew. He had been one, after all.)

Who knew Aziraphale could be so cruel?

(Crowley didn’t. Hadn’t even guessed that he was capable.)

Seriously. Fuck Aziraphale.

It was a sentiment that resonated deep inside him, burning its way into the fissures in his chest. Never had he known a deeper truth. Never had he known a more profound...profound...uh...thing.

Damn it. He was reaching black out levels of drunk. If the blank sheet that littered his otherwise bare desk was going to be filled it would need to be sooner rather than later. He’d concisely explain to Aziraphale just how he felt about ‘fraternizing’. 

‘Dear Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Principality, TWAT. 

FUCK YOU.

Sincerely, 

Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Demon of the Pit, FORMER FRIEND.’

He finished with a dramatic flourish of his wrist, splattering ink across paper, desk, and trousers alike. It was folded before the ink had even dried and miracled directly to its intended recipient. 

Crowley didn’t feel any better. Not even draining the bottle of rum clutched in his fist did nothing to ease the searing hurt in him.

Nor did the comfort of his four poster bed. Nothing could heal him. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

...he awoke a week later in a puddle of his own dried drool. He was stiff, his mouth tasted like death’s balls, and he remembered ‘fraternizing’ and poorly considered letters in the time between one yawn and the next. 

Oh, he may have fucked up. 

He delayed checking his post box for as long as he could. However, dressing and grooming only took so long when one could do so with a snap of their fingers. He had no nibbles in his pantry, no assignments or paperwork to procrastinate with. His own curiosity was getting the better of him, as well. He was his own worst enemy. 

Yet, when his thin, trembling fingers finally pulled open the box he was more devastated to find nothing. No curt responses, no lengthy arguments, no impassioned pleas or sour words. There was nothing. He hadn’t been worth it. 

Right. No more fraternizing, then. 

Fine. He could rid himself of the beast in black ink. The thing they never spoke of. It had died. Been killed by the two of them. Good. This was good. This was what he wanted all those years ago, when he realized the depth of his feeling for the angel and Gods cruelty for allowing it. He could be a proper, well respected demon now without the shadow of Aziraphale’s goodness hanging over him. He could move up in the ranks!

....just not in London. Or anywhere in England. Or Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. 

A holiday! He’d go on holiday! He’d tempt and curse and fuck and drink his way across Europe, then Asian, then...then North America! Yeh! This was...was….

Well, it was. What it would be, he’d see with time. 

He always had time.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was September, 1940 and Crowley’s grand tour was about to come to an end. 

Decades had been spent travelling, meeting humans, drinking with humans, tempting humans, fucking humans, cursing humans, and being friendly with humans. He had picked up all manner of fashion and hair style, knew how to order cocktails in at least six different languages, and had sketched all kinds of stunning vistas in solitude. 

It was wearing a tad thin. 

Not to mention, one fact had become very clear to him: He was a piss poor demon. He was just as likely to help a poor sap than curse one, to fortify a weak soul than tempt it. 

He was ruined, unfit, and he couldn’t even blame Aziraphale. 

Thankfully, head office seemed happy with the temptations and the inane inconveniences he did manage. They were also more than willing to send him medals and commendations for wicked events that he had nothing to do with. 

The latest had been the Germany business. He wasn’t up to speed on what was happening, only that a war had started and that the American’s weren’t very concerned with it all which suited him just fine. Ignorance was bliss and Crowley was high on it. Humans always went to war with each other and, with the Great War just a few decades behind them, no doubt this one would be over quickly. All he needed to do was sit back and reap whatever rewards Head Office sent his way. 

Then came September, 1940.

He was in New York City, sitting in a swanky bar, a glass of gin and tonic loosely clenched in one alcohol lax hand, and a lovely blonde was clinging to his arm. She was a sight, all pinned curls, white lace, and plump curves. Her friend was glowering from the other end of the bar, overflowing with jealousy that her soft, sweet companion was receiving attractive male attention and she was not. 

Crowley was thinking he’d take the pleasant woman back to his room. She was quite nice, after all, and he was already imagining her thighs pressed to his ears as she yanked at his hair for more, more, MORE-

“-bombed the Thames! Can you believe that?” The mispronunciation of Thames is what caught his attention. The talk of bombing caught up to him a second later. “Some shipping port. Heard the area is devastated.”

His companion was listening as well, having sensed how he had suddenly tensed. “Heard the Brits have been in the air for days. They’re sayin’ the city is gettin’ hammered.”

“Serves em right. Stickin’ their noses in all that Polish business. You would see me gettin’ mixed up with-”

“Anthony?” His companions soft voice drew his attention back. He found himself looking into large, concerned eyes. “Um, do you wanna...well...I don’t wanna pry but you’re from London, yeh? Do ya wanna….?” She nodded to the private telephone booths.

Sweet Satan, this woman was a good one. “I’ll not be a moment,” he murmured, flashing a grateful smile her ways and pecking her cheek. Her friend’s jealousy flared brightly.

The folding door had barely shut behind him when he had his hand on receiver. Okay. So. What was he doing, exactly? He could call Dagon’s private line, get the read on the bombings, begin plotting a way to fuck it up, and get his arse back to his city. Yeh. That would work.

...except when he finally picked up the phone he found it was already ringing. 

He knew who it was connecting to.

(The one entity his mind had immediately settled on, the one he wanted to call for decades now but stubbornly refused to.)

“A.Z. Fell, book dealer. I’m afraid we’ll be closed until further notice. How can I help you?” 

He sounded the same as always, albeit a fair amount more high strung. Of course he would be. Humans had discovered flight and now they were blowing the tar out of each other using it. He had every right to feel stressed.

“...hello?”

Crowley covered his mouth, daring not to breathe let alone speak. His heart was rebelling, beating hard in his chest, as if it hadn’t been broken a century before. Treacherous, fickle organ. 

Aziraphale huffed on the other line. “Really, now.” There was a click and the line went dead.

Crowley put the receiver back down. The ache in him, the one he’d pack up and try to escape everytime it reared its ugly head, was at the forefront of him except now instead of aching because of certain angels it was now aching for them. 

The Beast in Black Ink wasn’t dead. It was dormant, sleeping in the cracks of his heart like the gold in Kintsugi pottery, waiting for wounds to heal and pain to dull. 

He was back in England before dusk the next day.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale was a beacon. If the Luftwaffe had the ability to see what the angels was putting into the world, the Bentley would have been an easy target as it swerved and darted through vacant London streets. It was damn near incandescent. 

Crowley was, in no uncertain terms, freaking out. 

He could feel it. Oh, he’d gotten whiffs of it from the angel in the past but it always vanished, buttoned up back inside Aziraphale, before it became anything substantial. This was new. This was a broadcast that God Herself was probably able to feel, it was a dangerous and hot and powerful. It put off no physical light yet Crowley felt blinded by it. 

From the corner of his eye he could see thick fingers caressing a book laden, leather carpet bag as if it were the Holy Grail. 

Crowley’s stomach did a flip.

They pulled up outside of the bookshop far too soon. Aziraphale had yet to say a word, had yet to even really look at him, but the beacon had not yet dulled. No attempt had been made to contain it, as far as he could tell.

Aziraphale didn’t move. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “So...uh. Shop looks unscathed. That’s good. Would be a shame for it to burn to the ground, you know? By this point I don’t think Alexandria can-”

“Come in for a drink.” It wasn’t a request, it was a demand that left Crowley floundering. The angel so rarely out right demanded things of him, after all, usually more than happy to hint at what he wanted or ask politely. 

The beacon was blinding. Crowley couldn’t look at him directly. 

“Should we-uhm-should we talk about what happened-?” 

“No.” Aziraphale looked at him sharply only to immediately soften. “Just...come in? Please?”

He didn’t stand a chance against angelic pleas. 

The shop was unchanged in almost every way. There was a telephone now, new curtains, electric lamps, and an awful looking Persian rug but all the books seemed to be accounted for. In fact, Crowley was quite certain that Aziraphale had sold no books since the last time he’d entered. 

He followed Aziraphale like a shadow through the stacks and shelves, trying to note any other changes while keeping up his performative aloofness. The beacon in the angel was beginning to waiver as he puttered about, gathering fine crystal glasses and finer booze. Crowley expected as much. Common sense would come back to the angel now, he’d realize the one he was shining that light for was damned and not worthy of it, saved books or no. 

He was probably remembering the request and the fight. Probably wondering if Crowley was trying to get in his good books once again so he could finally get what he asked for.

Crowley took up his usual spot in the backroom, splaying himself on the dusty sofa with all the elegance of a dead octopus. “Have things been good? Other than war and nazi’s, that is.” 

It was taking Aziraphale an absurd amount of time to pour their drinks. “Good as they ever are. I never expected a war of this scale so soon after another, however, and I must admit it had thrown me off. I hope this doesn’t become a habit for them.”

“What? To blow the tar out of each other every few decades?” Crowley hummed, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. “Humans are always fighting, angel. War is a hobby for some.”

“Such large scale and all encompassing conflicts are new. You must admit that. Never has it been easier to kill a few hundred in but a few seconds.” Aziraphale finally turned around, eyes cast to the floor, and passed a glass to the waiting demon. “It’s disheartening.”

“...it is.” Crowley conceded the point with a sigh and took the glass from the angel, careful not to brush their fingers together, careful not to look up and see what the status of the bright, shining thing was now that they were talking about war. 

“There is one unexpected upside however.” There was a shift, a depression in the couch next to him. Aziraphale had foregone his normal seating arrangements in favor of sitting on the sofa with Crowley, an unheard of occurence. “All these wicked events serve to make even the smallest kindnesses seem momentous.” 

He was looking at him, Crowley could feel his gaze burning into him as if the angel had exposed all his True Form had to offer. He took a drink to steady himself, barely felt the usual burn that came from strong liquor. 

“Crowley.”

Oh, heaven above. Rarely had he heard his name spoken so tenderly. It was a sirens call and he was about to wreck on holy shores if he wasn’t careful.

“Crowley, my dearest….”   
  
That word. He hadn’t used that endearment in centuries, not towards him, not so deliberately. 

“I’ve missed you. More than I can possibly say.”

Words. He should be saying them back, confessing his transgressions and decades of pining. He should let black ink spill off his tongue, let the beast out into the open. It wanted to be let out, after all, if the banging behind his breast bone was anything to go by. 

He drained the glass, swallowed harder than was strictly nesscary, and took a breath. He finally allowed himself to look at the angel through the dark tiny of his glasses.

They weren’t enough to block out the light. 

“I always hoped you were minding how you go, dearest.” Aziraphale offered an uncertain, fragile smile. 

He couldn’t do this a moment longer. 

Crowley launched himself across the scant few inches that separated them, striking like a viper, finding the others lips with ease. There was no gasp of surprise, no whimper of confusion, nor was there anything uncertain about it. Aziraphale glass dropped, shattering on the floor, but the fussy angel seemed not to notice. He was too occupied wrapping his arms around Crowley so tightly that he wondered if maybe Aziraphale thought he was going to run away. 

There was no chance of that. Not now. 

The kiss, at first desperate, gentled into something different. It wasn’t the drunken, curiosity driven passion of their first nor was it the frantic, adrenaline fueled meeting of teeth and lips of their second. This was a soft, gentle slide and slip of lip and tongue, a prodding exploration and reacquaintance of each others mouths that neither wanted to end. Well, Crowley certainly didn’t want it to end and Aziraphale seemed more than happy to come along for the ride.

When they were this close he couldn’t see the bright thing. He was wrapped in it, part of it. Like someone had taken a soft cloth and gently coaxed open a clean spot inside him, allowing his own dull light to join in. 

Aziraphale was the first to break away in favor of kissing down Crowley’s jaw. “One more indulgence?”

Crowley laughed, broken and giddy. “Are you still calling it that?”

“I can’t call it what I wish to, my dearest.” The words were hot and moist against his ear, full of longing. “Can you guess what I would call it?”

He could. 

“If we’re to have one indulgence then why not have both?” Crowley pulled away from the fluttery kisses to meet blue eyes and their blown wide pupils. “You’ve been broadcasting it ever since I put that bag in your hands, angel.”

Aziraphale blushed prettily, casting his eyes to a spot on Crowley’s shoulder demurely. “I know. I wasn’t trying to hide it. Not from you.”

Words escaped him once again but Aziraphale didn’t mind a single iota. He allowed himself to be pulled on top of the angel, for his thighs to fall apart so they might flank divine hips. Tender hands ran up his legs, over his knobby knees, up trembling thighs….

His hand flew to his mouth, covering it harshly with his palm as Aziraphale came to rest over the rapidly swelling bulge he found in the junction between his legs. He was rewarded with a ghost of a smirk, far too wicked for such a cherubic face. 

“Can I be honest?” Aziraphale asked, the picture of innocence and light as he palmed his sex through layers of fabric. 

Crowley, mouth still covered lest he blurt out a litany of saccharin phrases, nodded hastily. 

“I’d have you take me right now.” A pleased as punch grin split Aziraphale’s face as Crowley whined into his clamped palm. Fingers pinched at the zip of his trousers, pulling it southwards, before running daintily back up to toy with the button. “I’d love nothing more than to feel you spill inside me, to have you shake apart over me while I became whole beneath you.”

With a practiced flick the button came undone. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley finally made himself speak but it came out too close to a pleading whine. He winced at himself to hear it. “I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever you need. I’ll do it. Please.”

The angels smile cracked a little, the invisible light in him flaring to a dangerous level. “I know you would. Oh, my darling, I know you would...but...there are some indulgences I cannot risk.”

His hands were moving again, this time working on the buttons of his own trousers. Crowley, remembering his hands could be used for something other than clinging for dear life or battling back embarrassing noises, bat his fingers out of the way. He’d do his part in this, no matter what ‘this’ turned out to be. 

“We’ve never done it like thisss,” Crowley breathed, allowing himself a hiss in anticipation. “No one will know. It’s jussst once, right? One and done.”

His glasses were slipped from his nose with tender care, leaving him barefaced and open. They were folded with a gentle click and placed to the side before a hand returned, cupping his cheek, forcing his wide slitted pupils to meet blue, yearning eyes. He could see the beast in black ink, swimming in the depths of Aziraphale’s pupils, treading water, desperate to get out but unable to make its glorious escape. It could only shine its light, bright like a sailors flare, and hope. 

“I fear that if we make that leap I shall never be able to part from you again, dearest.” Aziraphale murmured quiet as a doomed man at a confessional. “If you had me or I had you I’d-I’d never know peace outside of you.”

Reading between the lines was one of Crowley’s talents, one he used to great effect. This time he was left torn asunder, understanding what he was being told but wishing he was ignorant. He swallowed thickly, refocused his efforts on freeing Aziraphale from trousers, and took his plump, pink cock in hand before he could give into an urge to bend and worship. 

He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t force or wheedle Aziraphale into taking leaps he wasn’t prepared for. He’d give and give and give and hope that some distant day they’d both get everything they wanted.

“Just like this, then?” He asked in a rush of breath, pumping the angel slowly, trying to pour the contents of his heart out through motion. 

Aziraphale bit back a moan, shaking his head. “N-no.” He returned his hands to Crowley’s straining cock, freeing it from his pants. He shimmied upwards, slotting their hips together at a better angle, and took Crowley in hand...then pressed both their lengths together, interlocking their fingers. “Like this.”

The noise Crowley made could have been a dying man’s last breath. For a moment he let Aziraphale control the progression fore he was too entranced at the sight of their cocks pressed together, their fingers interlaced and stroking both in tandem. Intimacy was a word he only ever associated with Aziraphale but this...this brought new meaning to the word. 

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale’s breathless, questioning voice brought him back to the moment. Once again, he nodded hastily, waxed hair falling loose from where it had been slicked back and bouncing with the frantic motion. The angel beneath him smiled, red cheeked and adoring, reached up to fix the stray strands back in place, and slid the same hand around the back of his neck to pull him down, down, down to his waiting lips.

The minute tongue touched tongue Crowley sprang into action. 

He gripped them both more firmly, stroking in tandem with Aziraphale but quickening the pace he had set for them. As a reward a high, angelic keen of pleasure passed into his mouth. He swallowed it down eagerly, intent on kissing Aziraphale through every single second of it all.

(He didn’t trust either of them to speak. Emotions were too high. If they spoke who knew what other complete, irreversible truths would come tumbling out?)

Crowley bucked and ground his hips downwards into their connected hands, unable to control his corporation. His only saving grace, such that it was, that prevented him from being embarrassed by his own needy reaction was the fact the Aziraphale bucked upwards into him in response. He wasn’t the only one with control issues, it seemed. 

They were slick, their precome intermingling and adding to the delicious slip and slide of their cocks. Crowley was caught between wanting to watch and wanting to keep on kissing Aziraphale right through the rapidly approaching end. Not that he had a choice. Aziraphale’s hand was so firm at the back of his neck that he couldn’t pull away from his lips if he wanted to. 

Aziraphale came apart first, whining in to his waiting mouth, splashing the dark fabric of Crowley’s suit coat with white. He pulled back, gasping for air he didn’t truly need, and moaned in a wanton tone the likes of which Crowley had never heard before.  _ “Oooh,  _ **_fuck.”_ **

That was all it took for Crowley to come as well. 

For a moment he saw stars behind his eyelids as all pleasure exploded from him and rapidly dispersed outwards, joining the ether he was molded from. Hell, for a moment he wasn’t sure he even existed. Perhaps he discorporated. Perhaps he had been struck into the nonexistence that greeted their kind when they well and truly died.

It was Aziraphale’s voice that coaxed him back.

“Dear me. I can’t say I expected that.” Affectionate hands were tracing intricate patterns down the length of his spine. There was no sign of the mess they made between them nor did he exposed anymore. He was warm and comfortable, draped over Aziraphale’s comfortable body, his tail curling along the floor-

Oh. 

“Bloody Sssatan Blessss it.” He hissed, squirming. “Sssorry about that.”

“It’s quite alright. It was a tad overwhelming, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale smiled tenderly, continuing the trace his scales. “...I really have missed you terribly.”

“Angel.” He burrowed his snout in the crux of his neck. “...I’m sssorry about the letter.”

“The one where you used some...colorful language and declared our friendship over?” He sighed softly, still smiling. “It actually took awhile for me to decipher it. You should have waited for the ink to dry.”

Crowley snickered and began to uncoil. “I was kind of drunk when I wrote it.”

“Hm...well, I decided to write you a proper dressing down. It was no less than ten pages long and had proper citation. However, when I went to send it I discovered you had left.” He paused, swallowing thickly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be back...so I never did send it.”

His chest ached but he pushed it down in favor of concentrating on legs and arms and a proper human body. Hands back in place, he promptly used them to card through angelic curls. “...I’ll always come back. Gotta keep up the Arrangement, right?”

The angel chuckled. “Quite.” He cupped his narrow face in his hands. “...stay the night? You can sleep right here. I know you shouldn’t but...well, it’s dangerous, yes? All those bombs.”

“You’d be remiss as a host to send me out into the street with so much peril on the go,” Crowley agreed with a cheeky smile. 

“Quite right!” Aziraphale smiled back...before it faded. “...that’s...that’s a believable excuse, yes?”

The bright, incandescent thing was being packed back inside. Crowley could feel it being pulled back, hidden away for their safety. 

“It’ll need to be, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays folks! Sorry for the delay but you know how it is. This chapter was super rough to write with all the distractions of the season. :P See you in the New Year!


	12. Chapter 12

Patience and pacing were not Aziraphales strong suit. One would think, being an angel, the latter would be easy to achieve. It was a virtue, after all. Yet when a new book by a favoured author was published he always ensured he had a fresh off the printing press and read it before it hit the shelves of his competition. 

When a restaurant opened and he knew the chef from another establishment he was first to reserve a seat and devoured his meal with hedonistic joy.

He didn’t know why he had thought he could be patient and pace himself when it came to matters of the heart. Crowley was the greatest earthly indulgence and he could barely keep himself from devouring him like he did books and meals.

His only outlet for their Unspoken Thing were their letters. They wrote more now that they knew they felt the same for each other and the postal service was more reliable than it had ever been. It was easy to spill out all sorts of ink drenched fantasies only to pretend they were casual acquaintances in public spaces.

(He wasn’t sure which of them first breached that nebulous boundary. Aziraphale liked to think it was Crowley. He was a demon, after all, and the very picture of temptation. Of course he’d be more than willing to write questionable letters! Yet Crowley insisted Aziraphale was the first hint at it when he recommended a particularly saucy novella and he was just following his lead. It was a source of whispered debate after one too many glasses of scotch.)

The letters were enough to get them both by. It would need to be. Aziraphale was resigned and as accepting as he could be that there would never be a time when the Unspoken Thing would become the Spoken Thing. He was so sure of this fact that, even after he had handed his precious demon a thermos full of destruction, he had shirked the obvious invitation that was laid out for him.

(His bookshop was literally a three minute walk away. Crowley’s offered ‘lift’ would have taken them God only knows where to do Satan only knows what. The incident with the bomb wasn’t that long off yet. It was too risky, too soon, too fast.)

That didn’t stop him from thinking about what would have happened if he said ‘yes’. 

It certainly didn’t stop him from drafting a letter detailing exactly what he thought would have happened. Something like:

‘Dearest, 

If I had stayed in the passenger seat, where would you have whisked me? 

Would we have ended up in our favorite pub? I should have liked to have ended up enclosed and safe in our favorite boothe, drinking the owner into a wealthy retirement while we swapped tales and sang songs. I’d sing the old, forgotten hymns while you would murmur snippets of modern lyrics that mean the world to you. We would have asked for the bottle to be left at the table and never let each other’s glass go empty.

Would we have sobered up before last call? Or would they have ushered us out into the streets? I reckon the latter is more likely, I know how you hate to ‘waste’ a good night of drink and I would not have been able to pass up the chance to lean against you for support as we stumbled through the emptying streets. Isn’t it funny how we forget the sky watches and the ground listens when inebriated? It would be nice to always feel so unobserved.

Would you have left the Bentley and walked me home? We could have tread the liminal lines that run through the streets of Soho. Those lines, when followed East, will always bring you to my gates...or doors, as the case may be. The sign will say ‘Closed’ but all you need do is lay your hand on the knob and it will swing wide to you, my dear. 

I have no question of what would have happened next. I’ve thought about it, you see, as I often think about things when I cannot focus on books or duties. 

I would have plucked those fashion forward glasses from your face to find your lovely eyes to be more black than yellow -I know how they get when you Want, dearest- and would have laid them on the nearest stack of dearly loved tomes. I’d have pulled you close by hip and lapel. You would have gasped and murmured my name and ask if it was alright. 

In reality fear would still me. 

However, I like to think this version of me would have answered with a kiss. 

I do not have the written vocabulary to describe the kids I’ve pictured. How does one even begin to describe something so perfect, so desired? I might as well attempt to describe Her appearance or the exact beating of my heart when I find a rare, forgotten volume.

How does it feel to have lips so enchanting that they are indescribable, my dear?

I digress. I always seem to get distracted thinking about your lips on mine. I dare not let this fantasy progress further. There is an intense yet nebulous pleasure that I lack the imagination to bring firm substance too.

Again, I digress.

I hope this letter finds you well, dearest one. I hope to hear from you soon.

Mind how you go.

~A.”

He did hear from Crowley shortly after the letter was sent. Not a week had passed before the demon ambushed him on his daily stroll and asked him to dinner. wining and dining him while looking at him so intensely that Aziraphale was sure that, had he been human, he’d have burst into flames.

They parted from one another without even so much a brushing their hands together.

Aziraphale could be patient and Crowley could be cautious. It was a combination that worked well...until it didn’t.

It wasn’t working right now.

A moment ago Aziraphale had been happily indulging in a spot of cocoa, a good book, an empty shop, and the latest ABBA hit that had infected the air waves so thoroughly that even fussy angelic entities took notice. It was going to be a perfect day, he was sure. He was going to relax and be peaceful.

Then came the post.

This in itself wasn’t unusual. It was exactly on time and slid the slot with ease as normal. It may have sounded a bit heavier than was typical but Aziraphale couldn’t claim to have actually noticed that. 

What caught his eye as he shuffled from his designated reading perch for the day was the large, orange envelope that lay mixed in with the bills and flyers. It was addressed to him, as one might expect.

It was addressed to him in Crowley’s loopy, slanted attempt at cursive. That’s what got him going initially. The excitement of relieving such a large and unexpected parcel from the former serpent. 

Greedily, he snatched the envelope up, locked the door, and flipped the sign to ‘Close’. if the contents of the envelope were in relation to the Arrangement he’d need to set off soon to do whatever needed to be done. 

And if it wasn’t Arrangement related….

Well, past experience indicated that he’d need a glass of wine, a few hours, and his bed before he was able to function again.

He barely made it through the door of his upstairs flat before he was tearing into the envelope with trembling, eager hands. He was only disappointed for a moment when he found no trace of a letter inside, just a collection of neatly stacked squares. With a frown he unceremoniously stuffed his hand in the envelope, freeing the unusual bundle, and allowed the envelope to flutter to the floor without a second thought. He knew what these were.

Oh, what was the proper name? Instant pictures? Polaroids? He simply wasn’t sure and quickly decided that the name of the format didn’t matter a stitch when the first photo revealed a yellow-gold eye, a blurred smirk….

Crowley must have attempted to take a picture of himself by holding the camera at arms length and hoping for the best. The result was a blurred, overexposed frame of just half of the demons face, a flick of red hair, a frankly awful mustache, and a rather enticing stretch of neck and collarbone. Aziraphale’s mouth was dry as he examined the first photo for an embarrassingly long time, memorizing every detail. In fact, he was so enraptured that it must have taken him a full minute to realize that there was a short message written in the white space below the photo in the thick, black ink Crowley seemed to prefer. 

_ ‘Got a camera. Figured you’d get a kick out of it.’ _

Aziraphale grinned and absent mindedly wound his way through the maze of his flat until he was able to sit primly at the edge of his bed. A deep, fortifying breath was taken. Once his hands were steady and his excitement quelled to a simmer he finally allowed himself to flip past the first, enticing photograph. 

For an instant he was baffled. The next picture wasn’t of Crowley at all. It was a rather picturesque scene featuring a quaint town that lay somewhere between land and sea. The message at the bottom was spidery, as if the hand that wrote it had been trembling.

_ ‘South Downs. Very pretty. You’d adore it.’ _

Aziraphale could read between the lines. This place had reminded Crowley of him for some reason or...or it was a place he wished they could go together. The Unspoken Thing inside of him began to yearn in a way it hadn’t done since that night in the sixties. 

The next few photographs were much of the same. Well tended flower gardens, a pleasantly calm sea side, a lovely Victorian style building whose signage indicated it was some kind of bistro. All of them with short, black ink notes.

_ ‘Never asked, preference? Roses? Carnations?’ _

_ ‘No wind, still sea. Bathers were out in droves. Have you been before?’ _

_ ‘Best pastries. You’d put the owners kids through college if you lived close by.’ _

The Unspoken Thing was unbearably warm inside him. It was threatening to melt through his chest and spill itself all over the floor. He was used to a flustered, hot feeling when Crowley sent him letters. Such intense feelings were usually embraced and beaten back with an afternoon of indulgent self pleasure. 

This warm feeling, while not entirely new, was unique in its ferocity, in the imagery it inspired. Walking arm and arm with Crowley through a labyrinth of flowers, pointing out which ones they liked the best, discussing flower language, concocting ridiculous messages that could be sent via the right species and colour. Laying on sun warmed sand under the shade of a beach umbrella, a Champagne picnic at the ready, while Crowley enticed him to dip his toes in the water just for a moment. Sitting in a private booth in the bistro, pressed close to each other, sharing wine and pastries, entertaining each other with whatever silly thoughts flew into their heads. 

Oh dear.

The Unspoken Thing had a name and it dying for Aziraphale to use it. 

Aziraphale stubbornly refused. 

Then he shuffled on to the next photo. 

It was Crowley. It was Crowley, presenting as female, in what must have been one of those new discotheques that had cropped up all over the place over the past few years.

(There was one just down the street that seemed to have a stream of people flowing in and out of it at all hours of the day. It was a happy place, filled with intense love and even more intense lust. He’d been invited by well meaning residents, told that it was a ‘safe’ place for ‘his type.’ He knew what they meant but never ventured inside...though he did ensure a blessing was placed on the sidewalk outside to prevent anything hateful from occurring.)

She was dancing. Or he supposed she was, as the blurring and angle was so bad in the photo that it was hard to read anything other than red hair, dark glasses, and a black dress that clung tight at the hip. 

_ ‘New dress, new lipstick, new heels.’ _

The next picture was sharper but much the same. Crowley was more focused on looking into the camera, the tip of her tongue peeking out from behind ruby red lips. A man (or particularly buff woman) had shouldered into the frame, their arm wrapped around the demon, their hand on her hip. There was a hint of annoyance in the way Crowley’s brow arched. 

_ ‘Temptation Drawback: Unwanted attention from perceptive humans. Ugh.’ _

Ugh, indeed.

Imagine, having the nerve to sneak up on a beautiful woman and wrap an arm around her as she was taking a picture! How rude!

Without truly meaning to Aziraphale searched for Crowley’s infernal energy. He just wanted to check on their safety, he reasoned, to make sure...well, he wasn’t sure what he was making sure of. He wouldn’t be able to tell much by energy alone. 

He’d need a visual assessment. 

Crowley was nearby. Startlingly close. In fact, if Aziraphale had to guess, the demon was likely somewhere on the same block as him. The discotheque, that had to be it. That was as good a place as any to tempt and be tempted. 

He shuffled through the handful of photographs, cycling from idyllic holiday fantasies to the modern day equivalent of a masquerade scene that happened to be prominent in romance stories of a certain era. The ones where the protagonists meet in disguise, knowing full well who each other were, and pretended to be strangers. One of the heroes would show up unexpectedly, sweep the object of their affections off their feet, and spend the night wrapped in their welcoming arms-

Patience and pacing. Pacing and patience. It was too soon to do anything foolish. 

Crowley was so close. Not even a few minutes walk. Heaven hadn’t called on him in going on three years, not even for his annual review. They wouldn’t notice, especially if he was staying so close to home. They’d assume he was out on a walk or out with humans. 

Patience could go hang. 

Aziraphale was on the street and walking briskly Northwards in less than ten minutes thanks to a quick miracle that groomed him to perfection.

The pictures were in his breast pocket. 

The Unspoken Thing was beating away just beneath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was longer...then it grew so long I figured I'd just split it into two chapters and really go to town with it. :P So, please accept this while I work on the Good Stuff.


	13. Chapter 13

Disco was alright in Crowley’s opinion. Sure, it was starting to get a little stupid when it came to the subject matter but the music was usually good to dance to, lyrics about ducks and their supposed love of the genre not withstanding. As long as warm bodies in search of their next mistake kept lining up night after night he was willing to put up with pretty much anything. One couldn’t ask for easier temptations. 

Except, sometimes, wires got crossed. 

Every now and then humans would catch on to their being something otherworldly about him. He was sure they didn’t ‘ _know’_ know, they most likely thought he was just particularly magnetic or charming or _something._ A good strong aura, a few drinks, and a lonely but open soul was often all it took for him to draw unintended attention. 

Once upon a time, way back when humans were becoming more aplenty and he viewed them as any ex-employee would view a project that had been unceremoniously booted from, he gladly wracked up easy temptations from such rare humans. Sensitives could be persuaded to over drink, over eat, steal, lie, fight, and fuck with a whisper and a smile. 

He fell out of the easy temptations and seeking out Sensitive types sometime after the Flood. It was hard to abuse someone’s weakness when they had no real choice in it! It didn’t seem fair. The point of a good temptation was that humans were supposed to self determine. They could choose if they were going to do the nebulous right or the equally nebulous wrong thing. Those predisposed to following other worldly intervention without a second thought didn’t have that choice.

...not to mention he disliked the idea of being wretched, as much as he boasted about it in front of his superiors and certain angels. Tempting those that couldn’t say ‘no’ made him feel more wretched than anything. 

Sensitives were more common now that there were billions of humans living together. They didn’t deal in fortune telling or seances, they mostly didn’t believe in aura’s, and they certainly thought that angels and demons were just biblical flights of fancy but they still existed, going about their day to day lives without ever realizing they were different than their neighbors. Which was fine, really. Ignorance is bliss, at the end of the day.

Crowley was far from blissful at the moment. 

He had switched from a feminine presentation to a masculine one just that morning after having a run in with a Sensitive that had gotten creepy on him a week prior. The only reason he waited a week to switch it up was because he hated to admit that one arsehole had ruined his womanly groove so profoundly that he cringed when he saw high heels. 

(He did manage to get a good photograph despite being creeped on. He was sure that hint of a possessive arm that had made its way in the frame would get Aziraphale going in new, tantalizing ways. He was already expecting a beautifully poetic, sweet but slightly tetchy letter back. More sweet, he secretly hoped. He had included scenic photos and posed questions for a reason, after all. He had to feed the Beast. Hopefully it got a meal.)

Crowley had chosen Soho’s premiere not-actually-gay-but-totally gay disco club specifically because experience had taught him he was less likely to run in to any one that would notice him. His plan had been to sit at the end of the bar or in the shadiest VIP booth he could find and tempt until his monthly quota was filled. A bit of over drinking here, some first time cocaine use there, a sprinkling of adultery between the waiter and the married business man sitting in the booth opposite….

Easy work for easy accolades. 

Except one of those Sensitive types was now in his shady little booth making moon eyes at him. It was his own fault really, for not noticing what was happening earlier. He should have figured it out when he inspired the waiter to bring the aforementioned business man a drink on the house only to have this specimen show up with a drink and dopey smile minutes later. He had just thought he was getting flirted with. 

Now the guy was practically drooling, hazy eyed, and bouncing his leg in a way the suggested he was going to jump over the table at any minute. He just wouldn’t leave.

“You want another drink?” The man's fists were clenched to the point his knuckles were boney white, nearly shaking with poorly repressed desire. He was handsome enough, well dressed, had money to burn. Crowley would have been flattered if he wasn’t too busy feeling increasingly wary. This was a man not used to being rejected and it wasn’t clear how this was going to play out once he eventually dropped the bomb. 

“Haven’t even finished this one, mate.” He held up the drink he was keeping miraculously half full and gave it a demonstrative jiggle. The man smiled tightly, watching suspiciously as Crowley took a deliberate drink

Perhaps it would be easier to slither out of the bathroom window.

(He could take a human in a fight no problem. It was the unfairness of it that he always got caught up on. No fight between an occult being and some drunk bastard at a club was ever going to end well. Add to that the unfortunate habit of growing scales when particularly agitated...well. A fight was better avoided than had, no matter the Wrath points one could gather.)

“Finish up so we can dance,” the guy grumbled loudly enough that he could be heard above the music. 

Crowley’s teeth clenched behind his irritated, tight lipped smile. “Is that your way of asking?” He snarled, the edging of a hiss at the tip of his forekening tongue. He was used to vile people but this guy didn’t feel vile. He was _entitled_ , which somehow pissed the demon off even more. “Kinda rude.”

“I bought you a drink. Figured you’d understand.” Great. Now this guy was going to try gaslighting him or some shit. Classy. 

Alright. He was going to tear this insufferable wanker a new one. It was time to be what he was- _a literal fucking demon._ This man was about to know the wrath of hell. 

Needless to say, he wasn’t expecting a divine intervention.

“Pardon me.” An overly polite yet cuttingly terse customer service voice joined the conversation. A shiver ran down Crowley’s spine before he was able to fully grasp that said voice belonged to the one person he expected to stay far away from a disco.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, a smile splitting his face despite his lingering irritation. His angel was here, well dressed for another era to the point it went around to being appealing. 

Clever, blue eyes darted between him and his unwelcome guest. Crowley fancied he could see the wheels turning in that angelic mind as Aziraphale easily worked out the situation and moved on to what to do about it without causing a scene. They didn’t want that.

Well, Crowley didn’t want that any more. If the angel had bullied himself across the tightly packed dance floor and past the bar it meant he was here for something important. Something worth throwing caution to the wind for. The Arrangement, most likely. 

(Or him. Was he there for him? Did his pictures arrive? It was a bit ahead of schedule if they had. He thought for sure they wouldn’t arrive until Monday at the earliest. Heaven bless it, he should have gotten rid of his mustache!)

The angel smiled with divine kindness at the agitated, boorish man. “Thank you for keeping my dearest one company. You can move on to greener pastures now.”

It was hard to say who was more shocked. The man blinked stupidly, blinked again, and looked between the angel and the demon as if trying to fit two pieces from vastly different puzzles together. Crowley, for his part, could only stare at Aziraphale with wide eyes and a dropped jaw. 

Keeping his...his dearest one...company. He...he was Aziraphale’s dearest...well, of course he was! He knew that! Except, hearing it said out loud to a complete stranger in the middle of a crowded club was doing a number on his head. Never, ever, ever, ever had Aziraphale said anything of that sort in the past.

Not outside of their letters, anyways. 

A wave of giddy dizziness washed over him. It didn’t stop even when the man stood and growled something foul at his angel. It only increased when said angel’s smile somehow tightened further. 

“Do you not have anything better to do?” Aziraphale asked sweetly, easily sidling around the other man and taking his vacated seat. “Shoo, now. Godspeed.”

Once again, the Sensitive blinked, anger being won over by confusion and the strange need to do what was asked of him. Ah, so it worked for angels too. 

“R-right, then. Um...have a nice...evening...yeh…,” he murmured as he staggered back out into the dance floor, hopefully to be trampled. 

“Oh my!” Aziraphale watched him go curiously. “That was quite a bit easier than I thought it would be. I never even got to insist he call his mother or pick up a hobby.” 

Crowley tore his dizzy eyes from the retreating man, refocusing on Aziraphale. Something bubbly, pleasant, and entirely composed of black ink was boiling inside him. “He’s a Sensitive type. You coulda told him to jump off a bridge and he’d have done it.”

“Oh!” Fine, blond eyebrows shot up in surprise quickly followed by a small, contrite smile. “It’s a good thing I didn’t tell him to do the first thing that popped into my head, then.”

Crowley leaned across the table, curiosity getting the better of him. “And what was that, angel?”

Rather shamed face, Aziraphale carefully avoided looking directly at him and pointedly did not answer, instead flagging down a passing waitress. “Pardon me, I’d like to have...hmm, something strong? Ah! A Death in the Afternoon!”

Crowley and the waitress shared matching expressions of shocked awe. “Um…,” the waitress began scribbling something down on the pad she carried, “I’m not sure if we keep absinthe in stock, sir.”

“Would you mind checking? Perhaps there’s some that you’ve never noticed.” There was a tingling of a subtly worked miracle. No doubt the young woman was going to present the order to the bartender and be shocked to find they had a hidden cache of absinthe where once there was none. 

Crowley watched the woman go long enough to school the surprise in his expression to something more cocksure before turning back to the angel opposite of him. “They have a perfectly serviceable wine, you know.”

“There’s wine in my drink,” Aziraphale was quick to quip back, blue eyes flashing mirthfully. 

“True.” Crowley considered him a minute. It usually took Aziraphale at least one glass of red wine or champagne before he started delving into lush territory. He didn’t seem distraught at all, there was no hint of a problem he wished to drink away and deal with in the morning. In fact, he was a bit giggly, blushing coyly, looking at Crowley through his eyelashes-

Oh.

_Oh._

His pictures _had_ arrived early. Honestly, this wasn’t the response he was expecting. He hadn’t even sent the solitary, tasteful nude he had taken!

(A fit of insecurity had resulted in said photo being yanked out of the envelope at the last minute. Too forward. _Too fast.)_

Touching the lip of his half full glass, he increased the potency of the liquor inside three fold.

He needed the courage to do what he would ultimately have to do. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale felt foolish. 

Whatever lust driven determination had driven him into the club was quickly dwindling as he realized that this just wasn’t his scene. The music was too loud, the dances unfamiliar, and the bodies too tightly packed together. The grand, masquerade scene he’d concocted in his head was vastly different than the reality of the discotheque. There was love, happiness, and joy in the air but also lust, gluttony, and greed. 

This was not the place one romanced another and that was what he wanted, if he allowed himself that truth. He had wanted to stride in and sweep the demon his eternally unsteady feet. To replace ‘too fast’ with ‘more, please.’

Perhaps it was for the best he had been stopped from making too hasty of a decision. Maybe this was a _sign_ to be patient again and be content with the innocent, beautiful pictures that were burning a hole in his breast pocket. 

...at least he’d get to drink heavily and bask in Crowley’s alluring presence.

And, oh! How he was alluring! Even more so after Aziraphale’s two strongly mixed drinks and one shot of straight tequila. Crowley was equally as tipsy, swaying to the music as he sat across from him, alternating between people watching and conversation. The red, neon light of the dance floor caught the angles of his handsome face gloriously and cast a suitably wicked glare on his dark glasses. It muted the color of his hair which, under normal circumstances, would have been disheartening. As it were it was doing a wonderful job of distracting from the hideous moustache he was sporting. 

Aziraphale was sloshed enough to be brutally honest. “Why the hell did you grow that?” He asked loudly, aiming to be heard over the music. 

Confusion lined the demons face for a moment before morphing into a grin. He reached up with slender fingers to twirl the end of the poorly considered facial hair. “You don’t like it?” 

“I can think of nothing I’ve hated more,” Aziraphale informed him bluntly, gaining a bark of laughter from his companion. 

“Not even corsets on men?” One of those slender fingers jabbed the air pointedly. Aziraphale followed the move with alcohol induced interest before wincing at the memory of pinched sides and sore ribs.

“Well then, I can think of nothing I hate more on _you._ You’ve such a lovely smile-” There was twisting feeling in his stomach, the faint smell of rotten eggs, and the obvious snapping of fingers. The moustache was gone before he could even finish complimenting him.

“Happy now?” Crowley asked, looking out at the crowd instead of at the angel. He took a sip of his frilly drink, probably hoping to hide his flushed cheeks.

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, a rather soppy smile splitting his face. “Yes.”

Crowley squirmed in his seat. “So...did ya wanna…?” He waved a loose wristed hand at the dance floor. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale flustered, nearly spilling his drink. “Angels don’t dance.”

“I know that,” Crowley smirked, glancing at him from behind his dark lenses. “You do, though.”

“I know _A Dance_ ,” Aziraphale said in a way that clearly indicated the capitalization of certain words.

“That’s different than not dancing at all. I mean, angels are only supposed to sing Her praises but that doesn’t stop you from belting _The Skye Boat Song_ after one too many glasses of whiskey.” Crowley was looking at him directly now, jabbing the air again. 

“Only when I’m drinking with you!”

“AND angels are only supposed to play instruments for Her but I’ve seen you pick up a harp for a temptation!”

Aziraphale glared petulantly, pouting. “That was _one_ time and it was mood music. Honestly, I wasn’t created a Choral! My harp playing is dreadful, my dear! I could have summoned the bloody bagpipes and those two would have climbed into bed with each other.”

Crowley was grinning, having fun at his expense. “Let angels lead thee to thy lofty bed.” 

“Oh, shut up.” There was no venom in his voice and he had to quickly take a drink to hide his smile. “Cheeky fiend.”

Said fiend laughed before softening, resting his chin in his hand. “...just one dance. A slow one. I’ll lead.”

Teeth worried his bottom lip as he considered him. Just one dance. That...that wasn’t too romantic, was it? That plan had been abandoned, hadn’t it? His heart was beating so hard that he wasn’t sure anymore. 

He took a breath, closed his eyes, and slammed back the rest of his drink. When he opened them again a very uncertain- but cautiously optimistic- demon was looking back at him. “One dance.”

Whatever lingering doubt that resided in him was obliterated by the shine of Crowley’s thrilled smile. 

Hand in hand, they tripped and stumbled to the dance floor just as a slower tune began to play. Before he could ask if that was Crowley’s doing there were hands on his hips, pulling him close, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around the demons shoulders. They were pressed tight to each other on the crowded floor, not an inch between them. 

“Just...sway with me,” Crowley mumbled next to his ear, breath hot and moist. 

Aziraphale nodded silently and followed Crowley’s lead, swaying with music. The alcohol he downed so hastily was hitting him in waves now that he was standing, making the world a dizzying place to exist in. The only solid thing was Crowley hands on his hips, his body pressed to his own, keeping him from falling away. 

He had already fallen in love, after all. He couldn’t afford to fall further. 

The Unspoken Thing roared. It was acknowledged, named. Even in the privacy of his own head he had never dared to label it. Even when he was shining like a beacon in the night with it back in the Forties he didn’t speak it. Now, on a crowded dance floor with the one the Unspoken Thing belonged to, he named it as easily as breathing.

Aziraphale pulled him in closer and boldly rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck. He didn’t miss the spasm in the fingers on his hips, nor did he miss the hitch of breath. 

“Angel-” Crowley began, voice strangely choked. 

“Carnations. Red ones,” Aziraphale cut him off. “Those are my favorite.”

The demon in his arms stopped breathing altogether for a moment as he pondered this answer to the question he had scrawled at the bottom of his photographs. Red carnations. A symbol of longing, an ache, a love wanted. He wasn’t sure if Crowley would understand the language. Perhaps his interest in botany was purely an aesthetic one. Maybe he had spent so long thinking on the answer only to have Crowley not understand at all.

Then Crowley made a noise in his throat, something between a gasp and whine. He had understood. He cleared his throat, trying to disguise the effect the choice had on him. “Y-you have good tastes.”

Aziraphale buried his face further into his thin neck. “...I haven’t been to the sea in ages. I haven’t been swimming for millennia. The last time swimming costumes hadn’t been invented. I was nude.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley groaned, somehow reeling him in closer, but said no more. 

“I loved your photographs, dearest.” It felt good to say it, to praise him. “You have an eye for it.”

“Ah, was just...just fooling around. Thought you’d like them.”

“You thought right.” He hummed, swaying with him. 

“...was a nice spot. Good place for someone to settle down.”

A chill crept up his spine. What if...what if…? “Are you leaving London?”

“Naw. Nnn, well. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” Crowley cleared his throat again, voice catching. “It’s a good place to settle down _with_ someone.”

The chill was instantly forgotten, replaced with a flare of unbridled feeling that actually left the demon he was clutched to physically reeling. “Crowley!”

“Shh, don’t say a word. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.” He nuzzled into his hair and placed a kiss to his temple, even as he grumped and grumbled. “Just thought I’d share.”

Aziraphale ached and craved and pined and wanted and needed and and AND-

“Tell me what you’ve imagined.” His own voice was shaking with longing. “You have a much better grasp of dreams than I do. Please?”

The throat he was nestled to tightened, adam's apple bobbing as its owner swallowed with audible click. “There...there would be a cottage with creamy, white siding and black beams. It would sit on a quiet plot of land with a view of the sea.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, still swaying with his demon, imagining gentle waves and an endless, blue sky. “A cliff?”

“Maybe. Yeh. Just far enough from the village that one could spread their wings and just...drop into the updraft if they wanted.” Crowley quieted, breathing closer to his ear. “We’ve never flown together.”

“Some day, some day,” he consoled, running a hand down his spine. “Tell me more.”

“A garden. There’d be a garden all set up in perfect little boxes. Lilacs, lavender, roses, all that standard fare would grow there...but there’d be exotics as well. Creeping, tangling vines, black orchids, giant lilies.” Aziraphale didn’t need to open his eyes to know the other was smiling wistfully. “And an orchard full of apple and pear trees. In the fall, one would be able to go out and pluck one right off the branch.”

“Oh, I do so enjoy pears,” Aziraphale encouraged, egging him onwards.

The hands on waist slipped to the small of his back. They were practically embracing. “There would always be a record spinning, a bottle of wine airing, and an arm chair waiting in the vast library that was once a sitting room. Just existing in that space would be a comfort.”

His throat tightened along with his grip on thin shoulders. “Oh, my dearest!”

Crowley wasn’t done. Once again he was murmuring in his ear, hot and heavy. “Upstairs there would be a king sized bed with sheets as black as ink. Every night it would be well used. It would know the true meaning of passion, what it means to adore someone from their top to bottom.”

Aziraphale was trembling, his sinuses burning with unshed tears. “How lovely.”

“Yeh...yeh.” Crowley’s voice was wet and as tight as his arms around him. “Whoever lived in that cottage would be happy beyond measure.”

“I’ve no doubt, darling.” It was barely a whisper but one full of conviction. 

God, how Aziraphale loved him. 

“Why did you come out tonight, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked as the song began to draw to a close. They’d soon have no excuse to cling to each other.

“...I wanted to take you back to my shop. I wanted to have you for the night,” he confessed, knowing his intentions were obvious. Crowley had to have known. This was going to be an indulgence evening. A night to let the Unspoken Thing out and whisper its name in his ear.

“You said it was too fast not long ago,” Crowley pointed out, grip beginning to loosen. 

“I know.” Aziraphale took a half step back. “They’ve been checking in more lately. It’s been six thousand years. Their waiting for...for The End to start.”

Crowley nodded silently with an expression that suggested that his side was beginning to get antsy as well. “...if you took me home and...and _indulged to the fullest_ you’d never be rid of me, you know.”

Aziraphale smiled despite himself. “I don’t wish to be rid of you.”

Crowley looked away, unable to keep his cool under such an admission. It was adorable and Aziraphale committed the small, telling motion to memory. 

“You told me once if we ever...ever took that leap you’d never let me go.” Crowley took a deep, fortifying breath even as Aziraphale felt himself stop breathing altogether. “I’m...I’m not going to indulge you, angel. Not tonight. Not while...not while things are as they are.”

“Things will never be different,” Aziraphale blurted only to be surprised by the desperation and defeat in his own voice. “They will always be as they are.” 

Crowley smiled ruefully, a hint of fangs sneaking past his pretty lips. “Not very hopeful of you.”

“There’s hope and then there’s being fool hearted.” 

“Aziraphale.” Crowley paused, leaving his name hanging in the air. It took him another moment to make his voice work, to strong arm the words that needed to be said. “...go home.”

His heart broke. He fancied that Crowley’s was doing the same. 

His brave, sensible demon. Not long ago he would have jumped into bed with him without a second thought. Now...now things were more obvious. There was more to risk. A snog and a shag wasn’t worth it if it meant that one of them could meet with a terrible fate. 

When had Crowley gotten so patient? 

When had Aziraphale gotten so reckless?

(He hated it. They never seemed to be on the same page. The same book, the same chapter...but not the same page.)

Aziraphale forced himself to nod. “It was a pleasure dancing with you, dear.”

Crowley didn’t smile as much as he winced. “Anytime, angel.”

It was hard to turn his back on the lovely redhead. His legs were like lead. They didn’t want to carry him away. Each step was heavy to the point he wouldn’t have been shocked if the ground split beneath him and swallowed him whole. 

Aziraphale made it to the street before he allowed himself stomp his foot in impotent, despairing frustration. 

The ground cracked.

It didn’t swallow him.

He wished it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were gunna fuck, I swear! I even wrote it then...well. Then it didn't feel right. The timing was off. Bear with us a little longer, yeh? 
> 
> (I hated that seventies pornstache. It had to go.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going off script now. Here we goooooo.

Childhood, in Crowley’s opinion, was one of the greatest concepts She had ever came up with. He didn’t like giving Her too much credit these days but She was the one that had presented the idea in the beginning so he kind of had to. Infancy was nice, he supposed, and the Teenage years were an alarming laugh riot. Adulthood was a bit of a coin toss dependent on so many outside factors it was a wonder any humans made it too Old Age. 

Childhood was just... _ perfect _ . Children were the ultimate dichotomy. They could be monstrous, selfish, chaotic agents of evil after one missed nap or skipped meal then turn right around and share their toys, offer comfort, or being insightful the minute their base needs were met. One never knew what they were getting into when they were meeting a child.

Crowley had to admit, he thought AntiChrist would be all of the former with little to none of the latter. Lucifer himself was a bastard, after all, even Before. Smug, charming, shrewd, and bold was how he had been. An asshole rockstar before that was even a thing. His son was sure to be much the same.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, after all. 

Except...except….

Except Warlock was just like any other child. Capriciously cruel and naively kind in equal measure. One minute he’d be marking on the wall with his fathers expensive fountain pens, the next he was plucking flowers to give to his mother because he adored her. 

It felt off.

“He’s a good kid.” He mentioned it early, when the boy was about three, as he and Aziraphale sat in a dimly lit theater waiting for the curtain to rise. There was a careful distance between them, one that could not entirely be blamed on the arm rest or even the Beast in Black Ink. 

(He chose not to acknowledge the cause of this tense distance. It would pass if they were successful in this endeavor and would prove wise if they weren’t.)

“I agree.” Aziraphale smiled down at the program he had spread on his lap, fingers trailing under cast listing, giving each of the upcoming players a small blessing so that the show would run at its best. “Dear Warlock is quite sweet. Very inquisitive! He was asking after the roses the other day.”

“He asked why they look so drab, angel.” Crowley poked him with his own, tightly rolled program. “You gotta adjust the pH levels in the soil. Roses are fickle bastards.”

“They’ll grow as they wish, dear boy, no matter what I do.” Aziraphale waved a dismissive hand. 

“Anyways,” Crowley continued, as he glanced around to be sure no one was paying them any mind, “I was just thinking he’s a bit...odd. No. Wait. Not odd, not really. He’s normal. Three square meals a day, easy to put down for a nap, loves Yo Gabba Gabba, white bread normal.”

“He swore recently, didn’t he?” His fingers were now combing through the orchestra section of his program studiously. 

“Children are parrots, angel,” Crowley huffed, rolling his eyes despite knowing the expression would be lost behind his glasses. “Anything Tad says, Warlock says. Not really demonic.”

“Ah!” Aziraphale finally looked up, posture straightening. “There are no child demons, though! This might be all the evil he knows at the moment because that is what experience allows for. As he grows and sees more questionable behavior he may grow more demonic. Isn’t that the point of this whole plan of ours?”

It was. 

I was, yet…. “I don’t know, angel. Something just feels...off. I can’t explain it.”

It was a gut feeling that worked its way to his brain. Like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without having a picture of what it was meant to be. He knew normal human kids and Warlock seemed to be just that. Without a demonic comparison, he was in uncharted territory.

Aziraphale was watching him, brow knit in that way it tended to when he was trying to discern what was on Crowley’s mind. It was a look that flustered and infuriated him.

(Not to mention terrified him. Being known so well...it was a bit much at times.)

“...Nanny should relax. Let Brother Francis mind the boy for a few days.” He ultimately opined, soft and concerned. “You’ve been on high alert since the night young Warlock arrived. A moment to gather yourself might be needed.”

A moment to breathe  _ did _ sound nice. 

Except he couldn’t. Not now. Not when the stakes were so high. 

“The end of the world if more important than my stress levels, angel,” Crowley huffed, sinking down in his seat. “Need I remind you what eternity would be like?”

“Please, spare me the bird lecture.” Aziraphale shuddered dramatically. “Or mentions of  _ The Sound of Music. _ I don’t wish to accidentally change the show we’re seeing.”

Crowley laughed tiredly. “Don’t wanna waste all those frivolous blessings.”

“I merely want to see the best version of the show.” It was a touch defensive so Crowley let it go. The distance between them already felt substantial, after all. He didn’t want it to creep into yawning, impassable gap territory. 

The house lights began to dim, a hush fell over the expectant audience. In the remaining low light Aziraphale was a vision of blue eyes and gentle white. The Beast in Black Ink wanted nothing more than to wrap around him, protect him from The End and keep him forever.

Crowley’s hand snuck across the arm rest, brushed fingers over a pale shirt cuff, skirting the soft flesh of the angels wrist.

Aziraphale pulled away, folding his hands in his lap.

Crowley didn’t make another attempt.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the wrong boy. 

_ They had been raising the wrong boy. _

Aziraphale was having trouble wrapping his mind around it. Surely, this was all a misunderstanding. The hellhound was delayed chasing cars or harassing cats or doing some other canine activity. They  _ couldn’t _ have wasted eleven years raising the wrong child!

It simply was not possible!

...but Crowley sensed the moment the hound found its true master. Felt it gain a name instead of being sent away.

The End had begun and he could barely get his emotions straight, let alone his thoughts. He was angry. Furious, even. 

So much wasted time! He’d been keeping everyone at a distance, human and Crowley alike, since The End began. He had reasoned that becoming attached would distract him from his mission. There simply wasn’t a way he could focus on raising the antichrist up in heavens light and care about the fate of others at the same time. The task he had taken upon himself was all encompassing. He’d lived eleven years with tunnel vision.

There was always the belief that after the Antichrist rejected his inheritance Aziraphale could make amends. He’d explain his tactic to Crowley and they’d go back to dancing around each other in exciting, sensual ways. 

They’d send letters to each other once more. The Unspoken Thing, the love he had, would be allowed to grow again.

Now the carefully crafted distance he had created was evidently going to perform a wholly different function: it would make returning to heaven to lead his battalion easier. 

It would make letting the humans suffer easier.

(It would make k-k-killing...killing Cr-Cro-)

He all but leapt out of his armchair and began pacing his shop like a feral, caged animal. No, no, NO. There had to be something else to be done! The world hadn’t ended yet! The trumpets calling him back to Heaven had yet to blow!  _ There was time! _

If they found the boy they could reason with him. Perhaps he’d have friends or family he’d want to see happy and healthy, something that the apocalypse would not allow. Maybe he was alone, scared and confused, in desperate need of mentorship in the face of unexpected, mind numbing power. 

There was still time.

They just needed to find the child. Crowley had delivered them...but where? A hospital? Orphanage? Such places would have written records or senior staff. If a switch happened it would have happened at the very beginning. 

It was a long shot...but it was the only one they had.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley had an angel pinned to a wall. 

He realized his mistake as soon as his mind caught up with his temper. 

(Bless it all, he couldn’t even pretend he had truly lost his temper. He’d bloody panicked, is what he did. A demon being called nice just before the hordes of hell were destined to rise up and start a war was the best way to make sure one was the first one in a shallow grave.)

The worst part, aside from the fact that he and Aziraphale were pressed closer than they had been in years, was that said angel looked more liked he wanted to kiss him than cower. 

Or...perhaps that was the best part? 

It could be the best part. All he’d need to do was shut up and-

There was a voice. The moment was broken. 

(As if the universe -as if SHE- was doing everything in its power to prevent them from being together. Perhaps The End was inevitable and this was Her way of making sure one of Her angels didn’t Fall before it. Perhaps his angel was protected.)

(Good.)

(...good.)

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Mind how you go!” 

It had been a long time since he’d spoken the words -their words- out loud. They had simply slipped past his lips as he clutched the impossible book in his hands and squirreled away inside the shop. He was already hanging his coat before he realized. 

Oh. Oh dear. He should...should have invited him inside! They could puzzle over it together! Crowley always had a unique perspective and a knack for imaginative thinking. Such qualities would be essential in deciphering the prophecies of Agnes Nutter!

He rounded, hurrying back to the door only to already hear the squealing of tires. 

Crowley was gone. 

...well. Perhaps this was a sign that he was to work on this alone. Maybe Crowley was meant to be in the dark while Aziraphale was meant to report to heaven so that he and his fellow angels stopped The End before it started! 

Besides, he could tell Crowley anytime. He was a phone call away, after all. 

Not to mention, he was a soldier of heaven! His duty was to them first! No matter how Gabriel made him want to tear his hair out or how they ignored and belittled him any time he reported in. He may have been demoted to Principality but he was Cherubim at heart. Made to make important decisions when it came to battle.

Why should that not extend to before it? What was preventing the apocalypse if not plotting the course of battle? A good commander never went looking for fights, after all.

(There were several cherubs that would vehemently disagree with him. Battle in Her name was all life was about. It was their purpose. To avoid battle was to be weak, to lack faith. He hoped against hope that She would agree more with him than them.)

It was settled. He’d figure this out on his own, report to heaven, then let Crowley know that all would be fine. His demon would probably be overwhelmed with relief! 

He just...needed to keep him in the dark. Keep him away until he had all heavenly business squared away and then they’d go back to how they were!

Simple.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t even like you!”

“You do!” Even as he said it, doubt settled in. Aziraphale had been distant for going on eleven years. No touching. No lingering looks. No letters. No bright, shiny thing that could be felt for miles. 

What if...what if his angel was no longer his? God had reclaimed him as another soldier in the coming war.

(What if this coldness was preparation for when he had to.)

“We can go off together! You and me!” He was panicking. It was a stupid idea but one that could be followed through on with a snap of their fingers. Surely, surely, Aziraphale would agree and that would prove that they were still okay, that the world was still worth saving.

He didn’t agree.

In fact, the worst thing to happen since the Fall dropped on him like a bomb. 

“It’s over.”

The world stopped. There was an odd ringing in his ears that he belatedly realized was caused by his heart stopping in his chest. He couldn’t...he...couldn’t….

(It was over. Over. Millennia of pining, feeding the Beast, nurturing it and being present and...and...just like that. Over.)

He walked away, cold and friendless. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Heaven wouldn’t listen but Heaven wasn’t  _ Her. _

He could do this if he could speak to Her! She was God! God was patient and loving and kind and ineffable! If She saw just how hard everyone was trying She’d put a stop to it. There was nothing She couldn’t do. 

Then, after She had corrected this grievous misjudgment, he’d search out Crowley and beg forgiveness. He’d explain it all. They’d go back to how they have always been...maybe better! This time they could be more bold, reassured that they weren’t being closely watched. They could go to dinner -no, wait- a picnic! Right where She could see and they’d hold each other close under the sun. 

He just needed to get in contact with Her.

She must have been testing him for Crowley chose that moment to block up a whole street of traffic and try to get him to go away again. A worthy temptation but one he had to refuse if he was to save the world they adored. 

He rejected him with all the sound, confident reason he could muster. 

Alpha Centauri wasn’t that far for the likes of him. Crowley would be safe their if he fled. 

After all this was over he simply would have to drag him back from the stars.

Hand in hand, if all went well.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hastur knew. Soon all of hell would as well.

Crowley was fucked.

There was only one thing to do for it.

Time to deploy the nuclear option and save his own skin.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Michael knew. She had photographs, some more indesecent than others. They were disgusted with him. They thought of him as good as Fallen.

That wasn’t even the worse part. 

God wouldn’t answer. No one wanted to stop this war. 

Except Aziraphale.

And Crowley. Dear, dependable Crowley. 

They could do this if they put their minds together, he was sure of it! Perhaps he hadn’t left yet? He couldn’t sense him but he was having trouble sensing much of anything with increasingly bizarre events happening world wide. 

He’d go to him, apologize for his boorish behavior, and they’d figure out a plan to stop The End once and for all. 

Aziraphale left so quickly that he spared not a thought to his failed summoning or the book of prophecy. He certainly didn’t stop to consider that leaving burning candles in a shop full of what amounted to kindling was a poor idea. 

Then again, he’d been having a lot of bad ideas lately.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale wouldn’t pick up. Crowley gripped the steering wheel tightly and tried again only to hear the same ringing. No. They couldn’t have recalled him yet. Was it time? 

(He could imagine it, Aziraphale in those dreadful angelic uniforms, standing in line as some blustering cherub gave him orders that he had great reservations about following. The angel was probably miserable... _ if _ he had been recalled. There was still a chance-)

All rational thought stopped when he spotted the crowd, the fire trucks. 

The smoke.

_ The flames.  _

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d never been to Crowley’s flat. 

That isn’t to say, he had never been to his past homes. Indeed, Aziraphale always marvelled at Crowley’s changing taste in homes. There had been lavish estates with servants, humble town houses with enclosed back patios, single bedroom flats whose only view was a brick wall, well constructed mud huts, crumbling castles, and the list went on. Crowley grew unsettled when he remained the same for too long. It showed in his fashion, his living arrangements, and his methods of temptation.

Yet Aziraphale had never been to his Mayfair flat, the one place the demon had stayed the longest. 

Aziraphale was quite sure the aversion had not been intentional. It just happened that Aziraphale had a wine cellar and plenty of comfy surfaces to lounge over. It made more sense for them to meet at the bookshop as well, if only because Crowley’s bosses had a habit of checking in via the television and radio at all the wrong times. It was safer at the bookshop. 

He didn’t hesitate when he knocked on the door, foregoing the rather on the nose snake shaped door bell. 

(Honestly, Crowley and his flash. It made Aziraphale titter, even in these desperate times.) 

He did hesitate when the door swung open under the slightest brush of his knuckles. It had been left ajar, something the angel was sure Crowley would never allow unless driven to distraction. He paused, peering through the gap at the small sliver of the flat that had been revealed. All was silent, all was still. 

Something smelled awful, like rotten eggs.

_ Sulfur. _

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door opened for him like they always had, welcoming Crowley into the inferno. 

“Aziraphale!” He was screaming, panic and fear making him lose his precarious sense of cool. Hastur said he knew about the two of them. He told Ligur, brought him as rather unfortunate back up. 

What if he told someone else, too? Someone that would ensure heaven would brook no advantage. Someone that would gladly see Crowley suffer.

Aziraphale’s shop had never seen fire, not even when it spread through most of London. It was protected by virtue of the angel loving it so much. If it was on fire now either Aziraphale had abandoned this place or...or...this wasn’t regular fire. 

Hellfire. He was certain it was hellfire.

“Aziraphale!” His voice broke as he forced it above the roar of the flames. “Where the devil are you?!”

There was no answer.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Crowley?” He called, pushing the door open further. His own voice echoed back at him, buffeted against the empty gray walls. How strange. In the past Crowley had been much fonder of decoration. He’d never even hinted at a new found love for minimalism. 

This place felt like a tomb. It smelled like a tomb. Aziraphale’s mind rebelled, refusing to acknowledge why he might be making that comparison.

(He said they knew. Hell knew he’d messed up. Knew he misplaced the child. What if…?)

Step after step, he travelled deeper into the unknown territory that was Crowley’s flat. There were more decor choices as he went on, statues and paintings, but Aziraphale found he couldn’t devote attention to them.

The foul smell was getting stronger. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Why wasn’t he answering? Aziraphale wouldn't just leave his shop in such a state. His whole bloody life was this shop. He had to be here, he had to be!

(Unless he had no choice in the matter. Unless he was-)

There was a crash of breaking glass. An impact that sent him flying into the nearest smoldering shelves. A hiss as the stream of water battled uselessly against the inferno. Everything seemed to move fast and achingly slow at the same time.

Crowley, dripping wet and filthy with ash, kneeled in the middle of an angels sanctuary and began to break. Soot and water mixed, forming black rivulets. 

The Beast in Black Ink screamed.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a space between the sitting room and what appeared to be an office. The door to said office was swung wide, revealing gray sky and rain battering at a large plate glass window. There was a sleek looking desk, a chair of velvet and gold obstructing the view. 

The threshold there was a smoldering, bubbling pool of black ichor. 

A blessed pool. 

Oh...oh...oh!

He stepped over the puddle hastily. “Crowley?!” He called, voice pitched so high that when it echoes back it barely sounded like his own. “Crowley! Come out this instant!” 

Nothing. There couldn’t be nothing. He didn’t have enough time to head off to the stars yet, did he? Perhaps he did! 

(...he would never go without him...he wouldn’t. Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t.)

The bed room was neat and tidy with no signs of packing, the arboretum full of trembling plants, the kitchen still had wine and whiskey, the bathroom vanity still lined with expensive combs and product. No signs of a retreat. Not even a hasty one. 

At some point his search had become frantic. Where was he? The whole blasted United Kingdom was being flooded with infernal power, rendering his ability to sense him fundamentally useless. Where was he?!

Without intending to, Aziraphale found himself back in the office space. He kept a terrified distance from the odorous puddle, unwilling to consider what it meant because what it meant was unfathomable. I _ t just couldn’t be. _

His eyes darted around the office, searching for some clue or explanation. There was an open safe, emptied of its contents. Okay. That didn’t help. More water splattered on the floor closer to the desk, along with shards of green plastic. No, that didn’t answer anything.

Then there was a thermos, top off, sitting upright on the glossy surface of the desk.

A thermos in angels dress tartan.

With heavy steps he approached. Hands trembling, he grasped the container and lifted. It was light.

Empty. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Someone’s killed my-” the black, sopping creature gasped in unbridled, paralyzing fury- “my love. Someone’s killed him!”

He was shouting to the Heavens, to the Pit, to the whole of the Earth. They all deserved to know what they had done, what they had stolen. They would never be forgiven. The world deserved the end that was approaching. 

After all, what kind of world would it be without Aziraphale?

The Beast realized, with some relief, that it would never know.

It was all over.

Good.

….good.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aziraphale sat in the would-be throne, watching the thermos’ path, staring blankly.

“...dearest…?” He murmured into the empty room, towards the seething pool. 

There was no answer.

Just cold, empty silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry. The pain won't last long. Just think of that sweet, sweet reunion.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was giving me trouble so I decided to split it in two. Please forgive my delay!

There wasn’t a mop or rags to be found in the tomb that was Crowley’s apartment so the items needed to be miracled. The mop ended up resting, unused, next to the desk. It didn’t feel right to create such distance between himself and the puddle that was his doomed demon. With a rag in trembling hand, Aziraphale set about soaking up the remains of the one he loved most. The thick, black ichor burned at him yet he barely felt it. That was a problem for After.

It seemed disrespectful to put such a gorgeous soul in a bucket, so Aziraphale emptied a shiny, black vase full of wilting, white lilies he spied in the kitchen window and drained the sopped up liquid there. It was a poor urn. He’d need to get a more fitting one After. Something in black and silver, with snakes and leaves adorning every last inch of available space. 

The pain came while he was wringing the cloth, the blisters forming on his palms and between his fingers bursting under the pressure. He steadfastly ignored it. It was only fitting he felt pain in this, his last contact with the one that meant the most to him. He deserved it. He had delivered Crowley’s destruction, afterall. 

The mess cleaned up, Aziraphale cradled the vase close to his chest, and set it in a nice spot with view between the verdant forest of plants that Crowley kept all these years. 

The thermos was reclaimed from where it had rolled to butt up against a wall. It was out of place in the spartan space that was Crowley’s flat and seemed disrespectful to let such an obvious mess linger. Aziraphale screwed the cap on tightly and, because Crowley seemed to like everything in its place, he returned it to the safe.

It was here he found the letters.

There were two piles, one much thicker than the other. Aziraphale needed to only glance at the top most letter of the thick pile to know that his own handwriting was reflected there. It was a letter from about twelve years previous, before the antichrist, before The End, before inky black puddles on grey floor. 

“Dearest Crowley,

I hope you don’t mind my letters. I simply can’t abide by this electric mail thing that everyone is banging on about. Where is the care in tapping at kays? Why, if that is how I wished to correspond I would have bought a typewriter when they were in vogue!

I have recently acquired a pair of tickets for The Woman in Black. It’s a bit of a moodier play but one I’m quite eager to share it with you. 

Besides, you owe me for that dreadful movie we saw a year or so back. The one with the video recorders, the haunted woman, and her dreadful boyfriend. 

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

~A.”

Aziraphale chest clenched painfully. That had been a good night. Crowley had been hyper fixated on the story unfolding on the stage to the point he hadn’t noticed Aziraphale admiring glances. Afterwards he had claimed the play was just “Okay” and Aziraphale could only agree. He hadn’t been paying attention, after all. 

Blinking rapidly to clear his blurring vision, the angel turned to the smaller stack. This one was more hastily thrown together than the tremendous stack of letters Crowley had kept from him. They bore no signs of folding and the ink was, at times, smudged or blotted in alarming ways. All of them displayed Crowley’s slanted, meandering cursive like a brand.

When he picked up the first top most sheet he felt a moment of guilt. He shouldn’t pry. Even the...the dead deserved their privacy. Before he could replace the unsent letter, however, he spotted his own name and curiosity got the better of him, as it often did. 

“Aziraphale,

The End is coming and you won’t look at me. Not like you used to. Not with warmth and longing. You’ve shut me out, buttoned yourself up to the chin and put three feet of space divine space between us. It’s a smart move, really. If we fail it’d be best if you can deny knowing me. I’ll do the same for you.

Doesn’t mean I bloody like it, though. 

If The End is coming let’s throw caution to the wind. Fuck it. Let’s hold hands in the park, picnic at the seaside, kiss under the stars. Take me back to yours and let me ravish you like you deserve, like you want. I know you want it. Lust rolls off you like a miasma sometimes, did you know? It’s a heady thing for a demon, to drive an angel to lust.

Is it just as heady for you? To know that a demon loves you to the brink of madness?”

The letter stopped suddenly, the ink smudged and unreadable as if the written admission had undone Crowley to the point he couldn’t continue. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him. Reading the confession of love after wanting it for hundreds of years nearly undid him as well. 

He replaced the letter and let the safe swing close.

Then he went to gaze out at the stormy horizon. 

_ Crowley loved him and Crowley was gone. _

The minute he allowed the words to bore into his brain he felt a chill the likes of which he had never known creep into the very core of him. He took a shuddery breath, allowed the phrase to circulate once more.

_ Crowley loved him and Crowley was gone. _

He choked, his breath getting caught in his throat, trapped by a sob. 

_ Crowley loved him and Crowley was  _ **_GONE._ **

“Oh no...oh no...oh my dear boy...my darling...oh God please,” he babbled, pressing his forehead to the cool plate glass. “Crowley. Crowley, please. Please, my dear, please.”

The rain beat against the window, thunder shook the air. Below cars and people were scattering, not knowing what was coming but sensing something terribly off in the world around them. On the horizon dark clouds hung low, ominous and imposing.

Aziraphale swallowed down another sob. “Right. Stiff upper lip. They all know now. Gabriel is probably filling out the forms for a Fall right now, wouldn’t you say dear?” No one answered but... pretending helped. “I’m so sorry I never told you where the antichrist was. I was foolish. Will you forgive me, darling?”

(No answer came but he knew that Crowley would have. He was good like that. He forgave Aziraphale’s naive stupidity at every turn. This would have been no different.)

“Tadfield is where we’re needed. There might yet be time. I couldn’t...I couldn’t help you and the world will end for me, regardless, but we may yet make this tragedy worth something. We may yet save them.”

White wings spread wide. Reflected in the glass briefly before the barrier vanished, letting the rain blow through. The scent of sulfur and grief was lost to apocalyptic winds.

“I never told, in that last meeting, to mind how you go.” He whispered, words lost to the wind. “...will you do that for me, dearest? Of course you will...of course you will.”

A deep breath was taken, wings readied.

He soared.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In West End there was a pub that was on its way to becoming one of the oldest in the United Kingdom. It had, miraculously, survived fire, economic depression, the Blitz, and more than one unsavory scandal. It was trying to rebrand as a good place to grab a spot of lunch but was having difficulty, given the fact that it still felt centuries out of date with its stone floor, ancient bricked walls, lack of reliable plumbing, and dim lighting. 

The owners weren’t fretting too bad about their failing rebranding. They still had reliable regulars. In fact, there was one couple that came in all the time...or maybe just sometimes? It was hard to say as the staff had a difficult time perceiving the space between visits or details about the couple themselves. Even the owner, who’d been running the establishment for well over thirty years, had a difficult time thinking directly about the couple. He was sure they had been coming since before he bought the place but...but that didn’t make sense as they always seemed the same.

Everytime the staff thought too hard about it the memories of the couple got a bit blurry, a bit harder to piece together, until their brain grew exhausted and seemed to reset. They’d forget their most regular customers until they came in again, claimed the corner booth, and the whole cycle started over.

A wrench was being thrown at the staff concerning the couple, at the moment, as something that had never happened before was happening. 

The tall, lanky, red headed side of the duo had come in alone, claimed the usual booth, ordered, and lapsed into brooding silence punctuated by occasional slurred, lost sounding rants at the sky above. No one ever joined him

That...that was new. The staff whispered behind the bar and cast pitious looks the red heads way. Working in a bar had made them more aware of the mood of their patrons. They knew happy drunk from miserable drunk.

They also knew when one was neck deep in mourning.

Crowley had them leave the bottle. His hands were trembling too much, making tumblers virtually useless. He’d just water the table top instead or his lap and he needed every last drop to dull the ache in him, at least, until The End came. Then he wouldn’t have to feel anything at all anymore.

It would all be over very, very soon. 

“If you had any mercy left-” he plaintively mumbled at the ceiling- “you’d send Michael down right now and let them finish me. They already got a taste for it. Almost did me in once...then Aziraphale found me. Patched me up as I was rotting in a swamp. Cared for me.”

His throat was tight. The next swig he took from the bottle nearly choked him as the liquor fought its way down the uncooperative passage. 

“He wasss good!” He snarled and hissed, slamming his palm on the table. “He wasss ssso, ssso, ssssssssso good! A light in the dark is what he was! You let him be desssstroyed! How could you?!”

There was no answer. Hell, She probably didn’t even hear the prayers of the damned, let alone their angry ranting. Crowley liked to think that She heard him. He liked to think that She enjoyed torturing him in particular, though he had no reason to think so. She had cast him out, yes, but there was no evidence that She had it out for him more than any other demon.

It was nonsense. That didn’t stop him from ranting to Her as it were the case.

“He loved me, you know,” he declared to the ceiling. “Not as much as You, don’t get the wrong idea. Different sort of love. He loved me and never said it because he knew it would break us just like I knew going to bed with him would mean...mean I’d never leave him again. He loved me and look at what it got him.”

Another pull was taken from the bottle, long and deep as if he intended to finish it in one go. He kind of did.

He had more to say, though. The bottle was pulled away, leaving him sputtering and dripping over the table like a spitting cobra. “Bless the bloody rain. Bless the liquor. Bless it all! If you were aiming to desstroy me finish the fucking job! Melt me away! Don’t make me wait!”

Once again he brought his hands down on the table. The book he had hastily taken from the inferno, nearly forgotten despite stinking of ash and burned ink, rattled precariously at the edge of the table. A stack of letters and a book was all he had left of his angel.

“I didn’t mean to fall,” he murmured into the mouth of the bottle. “Not even talking about the swan dive into sulfur. I didn’t mean to...to fall for...Bless it all! Bastard! I should have strong armed you into the bloody car!” 

Once more he hit the table, drawing stares from the doomed humans around him, and finally knocking the fire damaged book from its precarious perch. Dully he watched as it landed face down, splayed like a broken bird. How fitting. How fucking poetic. 

Muttering, he stooped and picked the book up between his thumb and forefinger as if the contact would scorch him. Not that it mattered. It was all Ending, after all. What were a few divine blisters at the tips of his blackened fingers compared to the end of the known world? 

The sticky note that fluttered from from the pages as he picked the book up initially caught his eye because the yellow of its paper contrasted heavily with the dark, oaken boards of the floor. He’d have left it there, as he was running rather low on curiosity at the moment, if it were not for the fact that he spied his name, written in a familiar hand, staring up at him.

For the first time since he cried out in the smouldering bookshop his heart beat. 

_ “Crowley?” _ Was all that was written, as if his angel were calling out to him from beyond the bounds of nonexistence. He ached. Even just seeing the proof of Aziraphale thinking of him was enough to set him sailing on a newly broken wave of anguish. 

There was more on the other side.

“3466. Starmaker, Serpent, dry thine eyes and cork thine bottle. Rede, fortify, and urge thy chariot onwards. Flame and flood comes, but delight and awe will greet thee in Taddesfield.”

There was a map. There were more notes. There was a name, a birthday, an address, a phone number-!

His angel had figured it all out.

Aziraphale was beyond help, Crowley was beyond hope, but these humans they had lived alongside for millenia...for them there was hope. For them there was a possibility of a future. 

Aziraphale would want them to have one.

Hell, Crowley wanted them to have one. His misery was his own, it didn’t have to be theirs as well. 

The book was snapped shut and the pub  _ changed. _

The bartender and servers weren’t able to put together what happened next. One moment they were casting sympathetic looks towards what was a very obviously a man neck deep in mourning, quietly discussing if he should be cut off and the bottle wrest from his bony fingers. The next moment, said grieving man was nowhere to be seen, a somehow full bottle of liquor occupying the spot he once had.

This inexplicable change was so baffling and brain breaking that they never noticed the swirl of tires, the roar of a demonic engine, as a pristine Bentley peeled away from the curb.

—————-----------------------------------------------------

Crowley had once boasted to Aziraphale about his work on the M25 . It had been sometime in the eighties, Crowley was once again trying his hand at growing some truly regrettable facial hair, and Aziraphale had been perusing the bakery case of the cafe they had chosen for the afternoon. It hadn’t been a planned thing, the two of them going out for lunch. They had simply run into each other while they were both trying to influence a political candidate and decided to make a day of it.

Aziraphale has been delighted. He got the feeling Crowley was as well.

“Odegra,” he had clarified as Aziraphale dithered between the angel food or devils cake. “I yanked the symbol from one of those occult books you’ve got holding up your coffee table.”

“Dear me,” he muttered distractedly as he cast a critical eye at the strawberry adorning the angel food cake. It was too red. A sure sign of culinary tampering. “That was the one by the Madman of Mu, yes?”

“The very same!” Crowley had beamed proudly. For a moment Aziraphale forgot all about cakes and occult symbology. Such an unguarded, satisfied smile on the serpents face was a rare gift. Aziraphale was a collector of such smiles.

“I hope you did your due diligence in researching it, dear boy.” He hummed and decided on the devils cake. He was in the right company for it, after all. 

No sooner had he placed his order than Crowley was stepping up, ordering the angels food, and paying for the both of them. The Unspoken Thing inside Aziraphale twisted with pleasure before he had a chance to scold it. 

“That’s the beauty of it, angel.” Crowley continued as soon as they sat, cakes in hand. “It will take decades for the bloody thing to charge up and, even then, the trigger needed to activate it would have to be damn near apocalyptic! It’s evil, yes, but so long game that it’ll never see it’s true potential!”

Aziraphale remembered nodding, snagging a bit of Crowley’s cake, and eating it alongside his own. The conversation was promptly forgotten.

Until now.

He was soaring high as he could, considering the wind and rain. He could have dipped above the low hanging cloud cover but then he’d lose all track of the roads below and he absolutely could not afford to get lost. There simply wasn’t enough time. 

He was somewhere over the M25 when the chanting started. At first he thought he was imagining it, that the howling wind was addling his ears. Then it became more insistent. Squinting towards the ground he could see humans abdonning their vehicles, joining the unholy chorus that welcomed the end times. 

Then came the fire. 

Car after car exploded, a dreadful domino effect engulfed the lives of the mesmerized humans below. Aziraphale screamed out in alarm, his voice lost to the roar of flames, only to quickly realize he needed to beat his wings faster lest he be trapped. This was Hellfire. Once surrounded he’d be as lost as the humans below. 

He pressed into the wind, battled on against it, watching all the while as the flame spread faster down the roadway. He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to be caged in. The world was going to end in flames and he was going to be the first angel on the pyre. 

The heat was infernal. It singed his wings, seared through his sopping wet clothing in much the same way moving in a sauna felt. The updraft was-

Wait.

The updraft!

Aziraphale didn’t consider himself a particularly skilled flier. In heaven his wings had always been an ornamental feature rather than a practical one. A symbol of his rank and purpose. It was, after all, dreadfully hard to coordinate four wings in a way that allowed one to pick up any kind of speed. 

Once on earth, demoted and two winged, he only flew when he was sure he wouldn’t be caught. Humans were always creating new ways to transport themselves and, even though some were nauseating, Aziraphale often sought to do things as close to human as he could manage. Flying was only used for emergencies or when haste was needed. 

Still, he knew an updraft was a God send if one could harness it well. 

He dove, cupped his wings, and allowed the heat in. It burned. It burned like the ichor that had been Crowley burned his hands. A familiar pain that he’d gladly bear if it meant he could get to Tadfield and put a stop to all of this madness.

The fire was closing in. There was only a small gap left. He dared not breathe. The updraft pushed him high and fast, urging him onwards.

The needle was thread so finely that the flames charred the bottom of his shoes as he passed through the gap and it closed behind him. 

He’d made it. 

“Did you see that, dearest?!” He cheered, deliriously, at the memory of his demon. The corporeal adrenalin left him feeling high. “We are still in this! We can are meant to be there for The End!”

There was no answer but the roar of fire. Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to care. In his mind, Crowley was with him and just as elated as he was. It was the kind of thing that Crowley would have delighted in, Aziraphale felt sure. 

Emboldened, Aziraphale flew onwards to his destination. 

If he happened to do a barrel roll or a few loop-the-loops on the way, well, that was no one business but his own. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a moment, as he sat in traffic idly flipping through the Nutter book of prophecies, Crowley glanced up at the wall of flame and though he caught a glimpse of something white amongst the churning black smoke. It was far, barely a blur above the inferno, with all the brightness of the Northern Star on an overcast night but it was there. 

Then Hastur removed his glasses from his face and made a bloody production of snapping them in as many pieces as he could manage, effectively erasing the image from his short term memory before he could properly consider it. 

It didn’t matter.

He ended up following in its wake, in the end.

Fire wouldn’t slow him down.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The storm stopped with such fierce suddenness that it momentarily left Aziraphale floundering midair in much the same way one would when they think there’s more stairs then there actually are when descending from one floor to another. His wings were suddenly beating against quiet, summer air instead of an all out gale, giving him startling amount of momentum that set him spinning gracelessly midair until he managed to correct himself. 

The angel blinked. Here in Tadfield all was well. The sun shone cheerily in the sky, the air smelled of fresh cut grass, and the people below continued their lives in blissful ignorance to the state of things outside of the towns borders. Love seeped from all corners, a ward against danger. 

The home of the Antichrist was cherished. 

Once again, Aziraphale felt emboldened. Anything that could love so fiecely and devoutly was surely a creature that could be convinced on the merits of allowing the world to continue existing! He’d need to press his advantage when he caught up to the boy.

...if he caught up. 

The airbase. That’s where it would all culminate. 

And that’s where he would be.

  
  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Aziraphale set down at the gates of the Tadfield Air Base not because he wanted to but because he felt obligated. Guarding gates could be hard, he knew, and he intended to be at least up front with this ones keeper. Also, he knew Shadwells voice and the man was in a bit of a tear, having it out with the solitary guard even though said guard was pointing a rifle at him. He’d asked Shadwell to come to Tadfield and search for the boy. This whole situation was undoubtedly his fault. 

He landed gracefully, though he was sure he was a state. The wind, rain, and infernal fire had done him no favors, leaving his hair knotted and his normally well cared for clothing soaked and rumpled. This wasn’t him at his most angelic, that was for sure. This wasn’t an angel that could command respect.

Yet the humans all stared, slack jawed.

Ah. Right. _ Wings. _ He supposed that would be worthy of note. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Be not afraid?” When in doubt, fall back on old scripts. The ‘be not afraid’ line was usually a sure fire way to leave humans speechless and bowing at one's feet while Aziraphale tried to not be too embarrassed about it.

It had been a while, though, and humans had changed. Shadwell didn’t bow, he merely pointed. His colourful lady friend didn’t bow either. She stared, hands clasped over her mouth. 

The soldier, dedicated in his duty, remembered himself and pointed his weapon.

Oh bother. He should have just flown on. Now he was going to have to explain himself to a bunch of tangentially connected humans lest he be shot. There simply wasn’t time for lengthy explanations!

It certainly didn’t help that music was coming from somewhere and growing louder by the moment, niggling at his brain, driving him to distraction. Actually, he was sure he knew this song from somewhere-

The soldier’s eyes grew wider, rounder, and directed at the space just past his wings. Apparently, whatever was coming was far more interesting than a bloody angel of the Lord. 

Turning to look, Aziraphale found himself quickly agreeing with the human. This was much more worthy of attention. Hell, this was worth the entirety of the universe! At least...at least it was to Aziraphale.

The ball of flame that barrelled down the road towards the group was infernal in nature and should have been terrifying to an angelic being. Except, he knew the shape of the kindling, was frightfully familiar with breakneck speed it was travelling towards them at.

He had been sitting in the passenger seat a few days before.

His heart skipped a beat. Actually, it beat for the first time since he launched from Crowley’s flat. It couldn’t be, could it?

(Please, please, please Lord!  _ Let. It. Be. _ ) 

The flaming automobile skidded to a dramatic stop. 

The door swung open. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale had only ever exhaled a name with such reverence once before in his immortal life, on the day he was created and he looked upon Her. He felt the same sort of joy now as he did then.

If the look on the approaching demons face was anything to go by, he was not alone in the sentiment. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s naked eyes were wide, yellow to the very edge, his face ashen and suspiciously streaked across the cheeks and jaw. A charred book was clutched to his chest like it was an anchor preventing him from floating away. “I thought-!”

“You’re alive!” Aziraphale hurried to him, witchfinder, mysterious woman, and gun toting human forgotten. “My dear, my darling! You’re alive!”

“I’m alive?!” Crowley laughed, half delirious. “You’re alive! I thought the fire was hellfire-”

“There was a puddle in your flat! Sulfur! The thermos ....” 

“What? Satan bless it, that wasn’t me!”

“Obviously.” He was blinking back tears, hand extended with the intent to cup the demons ashen face and confirm that he was actually there, whole and well. His demon. His wily serpent. His-

The gates of the air base opened and four children on velocipedes rode through without giving any of them a second glance.

The Bentley exploded.

The guard began shouting hysterical orders, waving his rifle with a soldier's intent. 

Needless to say, things became a bit hectic for a while.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tadfield had one liquor store and its selection was, frankly, abysmal. Their most expensive bottle of wine was in the fifteen pound range and tasted acrid on his forked tongue. It wasn’t at all comparable to the fine vintage’s that occupied Aziraphale’s cellar, now lost to the flames. 

It was the best wine Crowley ever tasted, if only because he was alive and able to share it with the one he always wanted to share with. 

Smacking his lips around the bittersweetness of his drink, he watched as a bewildered courier carried the symbolic weapons of the Four Horsemen out of their lives. “That bloke is going to need some serious therapy.” 

He gestured the bottle in Aziraphale’s direction as the angel sagged back down onto the bench.

“I think we all might.” The bottle was taken gingerly, as if contact with Crowley’s fingers was a frightful thing. “It...it has been quite a time, hasn’t it?”

Something tight clutched at Crowley’s chest. He breathed around it, reminded himself that there were a lot of things unsaid, a lot of baggage that needed to be unpacked and sorted through. “Longest eleven years of my life.”

“Really? It felt frightfully short to me.” Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath and tilted the bottle back, drinking deeply, eyes fluttering closed. Crowley watched with rapt attention intent on memorizing every microexpression Aziraphale wore. 

They could both be destroyed soon, after all. Best he held on tightly to whatever memories he could so they could be recalled as he sank in the emptiness of nothing. He wouldn’t go down screaming. He’d go down thinking about all the things that made his destruction worth it. 

A bus was coming. His own doing, yet it was still jarring to see it trundle along the dark street. A symbol of moving forward, getting from point A to point B and discovering what lay there.

(He was getting morose and poetic again. He wanted to slam his forehead into the nearest pole and make it stop. He wanted to live in this moment, not think about the next. It was impossible.)

“I suppose I’ll get them to drop me at the bookshop…,” Aziraphale mused softly, wistfully.

It was time to drop the bomb. “Aziraphale...you’re shop...it’s...it’s not there. It burned up.”

Aziraphale looked at him blankly, with eyes that were more gray than blue. Finally, his words seemed to take purchase. “A-all of it?”   
  
Crowley nodded, pangs of sympathy lighting him up from the inside. His nagel loved that shop, his collections. Heaven bless it, Crowley loved that shop! He loved watching Aziraphale be a cantankerous bastard to sloppy bibliophiles and vaguely threaten property seeking goons. He loved sneaking books out to read and returning them before their loss was noticed then denying reading anything at all. 

He loved the back room with its ancient gramophone and squishy furniture and unending alcohol. 

(He loved being wrapped up in all of Aziraphale’s second hand love and pretending it was the same as the love they held for each other. He imagined that any place they lived in together would feel like the bookshop but  _ more. _ )

“You can stay at my place.” It was very nearly a demand, if not a gently delivered, practical one. He hastily amended himself. “If you like.”

Aziraphale brow furrowed. “I don’t think my side would like that.”

Crowley nearly laughed at the absurdity of such a statement. Instead, he forced himself to be vulnerable. To be sincere. “You haven’t got a side any more. Neither of us do.”

Aziraphale quieted, eyes downcast as he took another drink, effectively draining the bottle. The bus pulled up and both boarded without a word to each other or the driver. They would be taken where they needed to go, in the end. 

They sat together, hips millimeters apart. The gap might as well be miles given how aware Crowley was of it. Where did they stand now? They had fought, Crowley threatened to leave him- _ fuck _ -he told he  _ was _ leaving. No doubt those were words that were going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Good thing the rest of life was going to be blessedly short-

A night cooled hand slipped into his own, fingers slotting with his own, palms pressed together. 

Aziraphale was still looking at his knees, impassive, like he wasn’t destroying Crowley by simply holding his hand. “...I thought I had destroyed you. There hasn’t been a day since that night I pressed my thermos into your hands that I haven’t thought about what became of it. I-I always feared th-that one day I’d try to find you and only find that damn thermos and puddle.”

The hand in his own trembled, tightened its grip. Crowley became aware of the blisters on his angels hand. They showed no sign of healing. Infernally created. How…? Oh!

“I cleaned up the mess in your flat. I thought...I thought it was ....” The normally posh voice broke and Crowley wanted nothing more than to make it not do that.

“It was Ligur. Leave it to him to cause trouble even after death.” He was aiming for levity but his town was far too harsh to make it work. Wincing, he chose instead to focus and channel a miracle into the angels hands, healing them of the blisters. 

Aziraphale gasped wetly but said nothing. 

“...I thought the fire was hellish. You can’t really tell the difference after it’s spread, you know? Well, you probably don’t but I do. They said they knew...and...you were nowhere. I couldn’t find you. I just knew you wouldn’t leave the shop in that kind of state and...I believed the worst.”

The newly healed hand tugged at his own, urging it upwards. Waiting lips brushed a kiss over his thin, white knuckles. “Dearest….”

Thank goodness for his sunglasses. It was too much. “We’re both rather melodramatic, aren’t we?” He laughed, voice tight with unshed tears. 

“I fear we are.” Aziraphale smiled fondly, sadly. “May I be honest?”

“I dunno if I can take it, but yeh. Go ahead.” Crowley forced himself to sit a little straighter, turning his body so that he could look at the angel more directly. 

Aziraphale took a trembling breath. “I love you.”

He wasn’t prepared. The air went out of his lungs, leaving him quite dizzy. The beast in black ink bubbled in his veins. “Angel!”

“I love you and I need to say it. They could come at any moment and whisk us both away to our demise before we figure out Miss Nutters prophecy.” Aziraphale rambled, the freed words loosening his tongue. “If we survive I intend to tell you everyday to make up for all the times I did not. I suspect you’ll get quite tired of hearing it but I don’t care. I’ve left it an Unspoken Thing for too long when, really, I should have said it centuries ago.”

Crowley was ruined. Happily so.

“I won’t get tired of it. There’s no way I’ll ever be tired of it.” He was breathless. His entire being right down to his True Form was tingling. This wasn’t what he pictured when he imagined a confession. There were more candles and better music, for one, and not harsh bus lighting and crackling renditions of royalty free songs. 

The beast was clawing up his throat, ready to make it’s escape.

For the first time ever, Crowley let it free. 

“I love you, angel,” he whispered, expelling himself of the weight the beast had. His free hand reached up to cup the back of his angels head, to pillow it as he leaned in to press their foreheads together. “I’ve loved you forever, I think. Before I even knew what love without Her looked like. I’ve loved you even during the bad times.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were shiny. Crowley fancied he could see all the stars in the universe in them. Perhaps he could. Aziraphale had many eyes, after all, when he was free of flesh and bone. There was more than enough to contain all the stars ever created. 

Crowley felt an ancient itch in his fingers. A need to place more celestial bodies in those many eyes. To give him more of himself.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They kissed once they stumbled into his flat and the door swung shut behind them, deep and urgent. It smelled like rain and a fresh, persistent breeze, a strange scent for his flat. He pulled away from his angels lips to glance around suspiciously. “Did Hastur break a window out or something?”

Aziraphale blanched. “Ah. Apologies.” He snapped his fingers and the breeze that was blowing through came to a sudden stop. “I-um-took the direct way to Tadfield after-after I was done having a moment. I didn’t think anyone would be coming back here.”

An ache burned in the demon's chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale whispered and kissed him again, soothingly. “Don’t trouble yourself. The misery of earlier already feels like a distant dream.”

More kisses were danced along his jawline. “Just hush.”

Crowley trembled with desire, with a need to love and be loved. He dutifully pushed the feeling down. “...we should...we should- _ ahh yessss _ .” A mark was being sucked into his neck, gentle and insistent. He held tighter to his angel, tried to gather his thoughts. 

“Prophecy,” he blurted, finally drawing Aziraphale’s attention away from sampling the sweat of his skin. “We should figure out the prophecy before we...we get distracted.”

Aziraphale pouted with kiss reddened lips, testing Crowley’s resolve without intending to. “We may only have tonight. After all this time, don’t you wish to…?”   
  
“I wish! Oh, I’ve been wishing for longer than you even know, angel.” Crowley forced himself to grin dirtily and wagged his eyebrows. “I’ve wished many times a day, into my own fist.”   
  
He hit his intended mark. Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled and stepped away an inch. “Crowley!” He chided.

“I just...wanna keep wishing after tonight, you know? I wanna wish tomorrow and-and the next day, and the next.” He cleared his throat, feeling foolish but knowing it had to be done. “To do that we need to be alive to-to keep wishing and-and loving.”

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “...if we don’t, though, and they come….”

“Do we need to have sex to know it was real?” He startled himself with his own bluntness but continued on. “Isn’t it enough to know that we...we love each other, no matter what happens next? I just...I’d rather take my time with you, with no fear or regrets hanging over us.”   
  
Fuck. He was blushing. That was far too revealing and sappy. Good thing he was already on Hells shit list because they’d never let him live that admission go. 

“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale blushed prettily, eyelashes fluttering demurely. “I knew you had a romantic streak.”

His skin felt like it was on fire. Crowley was certain he’d gone lobster red. “Sssshut up.” 

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale grinned and waltzed his way further into his flat as if he had done so a million times before. “Be a dear and get us some tea, yes? You know how I take it. I have a feeling I’ll need it tonight.”   
  
“Yeh?” He followed, pulled along by an invisible thread. 

“Oh yes,” the angel settled in on his couch, prim and proper, as if he hadn’t just sucked a hickey into his neck. Crowley stared at him, amazed at the ease Aziraphale shook off the desire that was still humming in the demons veins like the world's oldest song. 

“As you said, we need to figure this out so we can fulfill all our dearest wishes.” The angel smiled and produced a charred scrap of paper. 

Crowley could only smile in return.

There was hope to be had, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter you will all get the sweet, sweet love making you all wanted. 
> 
> There's probably only two chapters left in this, by the way! Be prepared and thank you for reeeeading.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't abandoned my other story. :P I just wanted to write something fluffy, smutty, and romantic. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr over at welcometoyielding.tumblr.com ! Kudos and comments are a joy!


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